Psycho
by brae679
Summary: When the misfits of South Park go crazy.
1. Chapter 1

Every person I've trusted in my pathetic sixteen years of life assumes I'm over exaggerating my problems. They've always thought of my as the cheerful, easily-manipulated Melvin. Never stopping to try to understand. They thought I was happy, the town symbol of innocence, if you will. But every smile I managed was fake. I've come to realization that I have no real reason to be living. To hell with the oh-so-innocent person they think I am. To hell with all of them, the ones that made me a miserable, homocidal FREAK.

I realized a long time ago I'd never fit in. It's a dog-eat-dog world, and I don't have what it takes to compete.

But if I'm going down, I'm bringing those assholes down with me.

I slowly walk over to the computer desk, pushing the power button as the seemingly-antique computer powered on. Pacing my room, the oh-so-bittersweet thoughts enter my head once more. I stop dead in my tracks as my brain begins to pulse and my heart rate soars. There's nothing better than the rush of adrenaline I feel when I realize that I'll be the ones to finish them off.. I'll be the one to show them they aren't invincible, and that they're just a bunch of phonys.

I've been acting very strange lately. There's no doubt my thoughts have been crazy... enough to make me have the creepy-crawlies. Many times I've awaken in the night, covered in sweat and dazed from the morbid thoughts in my head. Yet, somehow, the thoughts are exhilirating. I feel a weight is lifted when I think of the disgusting fates I can make people face. It's the one thing that I can do to get my sweet revenge. The one thing that I can actually make happen, and make their pathetic little lives miserable. No, no.. scratch that. Their lives would be _over_, and there would be absolutely nothing they could do to stop me. They'd be sorry they doubted me, and it would be the last thought they ever had. I have to act soon. I have to get rid of all of the traitors. I think of myself as heartless; I used to be overwhelmed with compassion for all of the pathetic people I now despise. And now, the only thing on my mind is slaughtering them, without remorse. This is something I've longed to do for so long...

_Nov. 21, 2010_

_No one had ever cared enough about me to try to befriend me, no one even tried to comfort me. Not even my own parents. Now, you're probably thinking that I'm being too harsh. But the truth of the situation is, I'm one-hundred percent serious. Every single time I make one wrong move, even if I'm trying to do good, I come home to the words, "Butters, you're grounded." I guess you could say this was the first thing that started this chain reaction. If my parents would have stopped before things got out of hands, I wouldn't be in this situation. They expected me to be perfect. Every single thing I did had to be just the way they wanted it to.. I don't think they've ever appreciated the things I've done. I mean, I'm human. I'm going to make mistakes, but they could never accept it. They were TOO hard on me, and they may have meant it for the best, but they've created a monster. Oh, hamburgers.. I sound insane. I should probably be in a wacky-house for thinking like this. If my parents knew, there's no doubt I'd be grounded. _

_My parents had always sheltered me. They seem like they care, but it seemed like they used their only child as their personal rag doll. Well, I suppose I miss the feeling of them sheltering me. It's better than feeling discarded, the way I do now. Ever since my little sister was born a little over two years ago, it's like they don't care at all. It is a relief to be out of their trap. Although I still get grounded for nearly every thing that goes wrong, they show no pity. They show no grief towards me. And drawing these conclusions, I do believe I've found my first victims._

After about twenty minutes, I come out of my dazed state. I don't recall typing what is on the screen, and I surely don't remember sitting down at my desk. That's when I snap. I jump out of the chair so fast you'd think my life was about to end. _Hehe.. Mine was not, but someone elses is._ I sneak down the stairs, quietly. I'm in no mood to be grounded. It's almost midnight, and I'm ready to become ungroundable once more. This time, the results will be undoable; however, there are still no second thoughts in my mind. I'm feeling no pang of guilt as I see my parents on the couch together, watching a night time game show. I don't feel any remorse as I find my choice weapon: a long, sharp butcher's knife. I look at the person shining through the reflection of the knife. That person looks so calm, so serene; so at peace that you'd never think in about five minutes, he'd be a double murderer.

I begin to approach my parents, from behind, of course. _Oh, hamburgers. How am I going to do this? I've always been a bit of a clutz, how will an 'innocent' clutz like myself be able to pull something like this off? Oh, Jesus. I'm starting to sound like freaking Tweek. Calm yourself, Butters. You can do it._

'Hey. Mom..can I talk to you?" _Real smooth, Butters. _

"Sure, hold on honey. HEY! What are you doing out of bed, mister? It's after your bedtime!"

"Follow me, mother. This has to be private." _Oh, boy. I probably sound like a total creep._

Judging by the fact she follows me with an angry expression on her face, I'm guessing she doesn't suspect me, and that if these weren't her last minutes, I'd be grounded for about a week.

Once we reach the laundry room, I begin interrogating my confused and very pissed off mother.

"Why is it that you ground me almost EVERY DAY? Can you not let me live a little? You've been ruining my life this whole time, whether you realize it or not. You've taken me for granted, and you've treated me wrong. You watched me grow up and haven't caught on at all that I'm miserable. And, can you tell me why that is, Linda Stotch? Can you?"

"Well, Butters. You are being ridiculous! I'd never do such a thing! You don't understand half of what your father and I do for you!"

"What have you done except ground me and make me do all of the dirty work you didn't want to do? You give yourself more credit than you deserve." Walking to the door, I slowly close it and turn the lock. A slightly panicked look spreads over her face as I begin to walk circles around her, asking her questions she clearly had no answers to. I'd say I did an estimated ten circles around my mother; slowly, dramatically, to add a little bit of terror to the moment. To emphasize what I'm about to do.

I come to a stop at the front of the obviously worried woman. Piveting so that I am facing her, I slowly draw the knife out of my jacket pocket. _Oh, the look on her face_. She would probably be screaming right now if I didn't have my hand placed firmly over her cherry-red lips. The knife was pressed ever-so-lightly to her throat. She's whimpering, her eyes welling with tears. If my memory is correct, this is the first time in quite a while I've seen any emotion from her. And the fact that it is me causing this pain and suffering makes me feel so powerful.

"Mother, you never showed me the compassion I deserved. You are the first person to feel the wrath of the monster you've created."

At that, I looked into her eyes. Directly into her pleading, tear-filled eyes. I looked right into her eyes, and I pushed the knife deep into her throat. Our eyes remained locked the whole time she was suffering. The plea in her eyes had changed to something that looked like pure sorrow and for the first time in her life, she actually looked _apologetic_. _My God, this feeling is the best I've ever felt. _As soon as I drew the knife from her throat, I turned on my heels and walked away. And I swear, the sight of the bloody corpse on the floor made a slight smile appear on my face.

Now, it's my father's turn to pay.

I walk directly into the front room, where he is watching some stupid-looking movie. Sliding the knife back into the pocket from which I'd drawn it, I come from behind the couch and sit on the armchair directly across from my father.

"Oh. Hello, Butters. Where is your mother?"

"That isn't important," I say with a slight laugh, "You'll see her in hell."

"Butters, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, father. You silly goose. Have you never realized that you've treated me poorly my whole life, and that you've seemingly forgotten your own son? All you do is worry about yourself, never stopping to think once about me. Never stopping to think that your cruelty might be corrupting me. You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"What do you mean, son? I've never-"

"OF COURSE NOT! You're sooo perfect, with your so perfect family. With the exception of your menace son Butters, right? Goodbye, dad."

"Wha-" I think it was then he realized something was wrong. And as soon as he saw, I drew the knife and pounced across the coffee table, not taking the time to think twice. He glanced from the knife to me, and back again. Looking back and forth with a look that was so seemingly innocent that even Eric Cartman probably would have stopped right in his tracks. But before I even realized I was doing it, I was stabbing my father. Stabbing him in the heart, in the stomach, wherever the blade landed. I don't know what made me do it, but I erupted in maniacal laughter. Watching him cringe and twitch, once more the feeling of being in control gave me a total adrenoline rush. My heart rate seemed dangerously high, and my eyes were opened so wide that it seemed that they were going to fall right out of their sockets. Bloody and battered, my father ceased movement. As fast as it had happened, I was gone.

I may be a known as a 'melvin' to my classmates, but I'm not stupid. I have more common sense than most of the people in this dead-end town. I'm not going to let anyone know that I'm responsible for this. Walking to the back yard, I dig up some ground and drop the knife into the soil. I'd say the hole was about a foot and a half deep. Then I proceeded to take a garden glove to protect my hand, and smashed a hole through the glass back door. When I do this, the house alarm goes off. _They'll think someone had broken in. They won't even suspect me._ Leaving the door cracked behind me, I put on my best worried act. Double checking my clothes for blood, I pick up the phone and dial the police station.

"South Park 911, what is your emergency?"

"My parents are fucking dead! BOTH OF THEM! Some son-of-a-bitch busted through the back door and stabbed them both!"

"Sir, calm down. We are sending assistance."

"CALM DOWN? MY PARENTS HAVE JUST BEEN MURDERED, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!" _Thank God I'd taken drama class. _

"Sir, please try to calm down."

"Oh, hamburgers. Oh, God."

The police arrived sooner than I thought they would. They asked me for any information I had. I simply told them I was in my room, trying to sleep, when the alarm started to ring. Hiding in my stairwell, I watched as my father was stabbed. _I'm so glad I can fake-cry at demand. At this point, I was hysterical._

The policemen drive away, saying they will do some more investigations and that they will look for arrangements for my younger sister and I.

_Success._

I'm Butters Stotch, and today, I realized that I have no heart, and no compassion.


	2. Flashbacks

That night, I found sleep impossible. No guilt, no sadness.. no emotion at all. A slight smile crept over my face as my mind begins replaying the night's events. Any sane person would agree that what I've done is horrible, but the only thing that I'm thinking is that I succeeded in a task I thought would be impossible, and the only feeling I'd felt since was one of accomplishment. It was like I was impervious to any negative feeling. And, once again, I felt powerful.

It was about 2:30 AM, I was lying in my bed staring at the ceiling when my thoughts suddenly went astray from the crime I'd committed. What - more like _who_ - was next? This feeling was too much for me to contain; too much for me to stop at this. All of the people that have done me wrong - they deserve to feel the same pain they'd put me through. But no, I wouldn't stop at that. I'd do _much_ more than that.

It was then that the flashbacks took over my mind.

_I was nine years old. I'd never really had a person to call my friend, which was why I was so excited when three boys from my class began hanging out with me. I was oblivious to the fact that they never really liked me. I was more like a joke, all they wanted to do was humiliate me and make fun of me. But once I finally began getting used to having "friends," they fired me. That's right, they fired me from being their friend. After the death of their friend Kenny McKormick, they were constantly searching for someone to fill the spot. I apparently wasn't good enough, and I was replaced by the town coffee addict, Tweek Tweak. The paranoid, twitching kid with a very high pitched voice; the one that was always paranoid of the underpants gnomes._

_The same year, they tricked me into eating a bunch of City Wok so I could get fat, then eat a little bit and excersize so I'd lose the weight. Cartman said it would be a 'cash cow.' Naturally, I went along with it. They forced me to eat so much City Wok that I threw up, and when I threw up, they convinced me to eat my puke. I gained fourty pounds. Even fat-ass Cartman made fun of me for being fat. After they found out that I couldn't lose the weight, they forced me to get liposuction surgery. Not just any lipo, they did it themselves. My parents got home, and they ditched out. They left me there by myself, room splattered with human fat and blood, to explain myself. When we were supposed to get the money, I was grounded. Cartman stayed to answer the phone when my parents called. When they called, called them all kinds of awful names. When they got home and beat me, Cartman was sitting outside in a lawn chair eating popcorn and drinking soda._

_Also when we were in fourth grade, all of the boys in the class found out that the girls had a future-telling device. Naturally, their plan was to get one of the guys into a girls sleepover. They talked me into getting on top of a building, saying I was going to jump. While I was standing on top of the building, in front of the whole town, the rest of them were dressing a dead pig up to look like me. They threw the pig off of the building, leaving the whole town to think I was dead. I went to school the next day dressed as a girl. I was called Marjorine, and even then I was made fun of by the girls. They said I had bad fashion and that no one liked me. As soon as I got the "future-telling device," I ran back outside to the guys. After they realized that all it did was 'make people crazy,' they destroyed it. _

_Another time, Cartman, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny had bought ninja weapons at the fair. They were going around showing off their weapons when I met them on the street. I asked them if I could play ninjas with them, and they told me I wouldn't make a very good ninja. I decided that if I couldn't play with them, I'd play against them. I went to my room and dressed up as Professor Chaos, and I left to find them. They apparently didn't recognize me, so they all began their pretend attacks. That was, until they told Kenny to use a ninja star on me. Kenny threw the star, and before I knew it my helmet was on the ground and there was a ninja star lodged in my eye. They didn't want to get in trouble for having weapons, so they dressed me up as a dog and were going to take me to the vet. They ran into Craig, Token, Clyde and Jimmy somewhere, and seeing that they had weapons too, they put me in an old oven and "fought" them. I got out, and tried to get to the hospital. I ended up getting taken to the pound, almost put down by the vet, and stumbled into the Park County Auction. Bleeding and tired, I got taken care of. The boys that caused it were never caught._

_Another time, Cartman dressed up like a robot named Awesom-O, and convinced me to tell him all of my secrets. Looking back on it now, I can't believe I fell for _that_ trick._

_They also convinced me to dress up like a squirrel, get into Brittney Spears' hotel room and get a picture so we could get money. They told the police we were Brittney's children, and I was just a squirrel. We got there, and when Cartman pulled out the camera and took a picture, Brittney shot herself._

_Once more, they tricked me into putting balls on my chin and going on national television._

_Eric Cartman told me that a meteor had hit the earth, and made me stay in an underground shelter for three days._

_When we went on vacation to Asspen, Cartman gave me a 'Hitler.' He stuck his finger in his butt, and gave me a Hitler moustache with his poo. I walked around for a whole day, not knowing about it. What great friends Stan and Kyle were not telling me..._

Many, many more memories went through my mind. Realizing that there were three boys responsible for the majority of my childhood trauma. Their names were Eric Cartman, Kyle Broflovski, and Stan Marsh. (Kenny McKormick wasn't so bad, he did his share of things, but he actually was nicer to me than the others.) There was a time when I could convince them to hang out with me somewhere, pull out a gun or something, and kill them all. However, things have changed drastically since my childhood, and the four of them are no longer friends...

Stan had grown up to realize he had a natural talent in sports. He continued to play football, getting himself the position of quarterback this year. (Which, should I mention, is a big deal for a sophomore at South Park High.) He played just about any sport he could. He was in with the popular crowd now, caring more about the party scene and hanging out with his friends and super-hot girlfriend than anything. His grades began to slip, and after a while, he started to think he was better than everyone else. He became full of himself, which is why he and Kyle are no longer friends. Back in eighth grade, Kyle finally blew up on him. Stan was a little sad about the situation, but merely a week later, he began hanging out with Craig Tucker, Clyde Donovan, and Token Black. Ever since, he's made friends with all of the more popular students, and he is_ still_ dating Wendy Testaburger.

Kyle was a pretty down to earth person. He had a 4.0 GPA, and he was friends with everyone that was willing. That was, however, until his friendship with Stan was over. They were 'super best friends,' and once their friendship officially ended, Kyle slipped into a stage of depression. He never went anywhere, except to school; even when he was there, he didn't do much talking to anyone. This lasted until about a quarter way into freshman year. Kyle slowly began feeling better, but Cartman and Kenny had already become fed up with his depression and left him. Once he was back to normal, he tried to hang out with his old friends again, with the exception of Stan. Cartman and Kenny showed no interest in being his friend, however. He then found himself in a group of friends that consisted of Tweek Tweak, Pip Phirrup, Jimmy Vulmer, and Kevin Stoley. It's an odd group, if you ask me.

Kenny and Cartman's friendship lasted a little longer, but by the third quarter of freshman year, their friendship was over. Kenny had been taking drugs for a while, and Cartman was fed up with it. Cartman tried everything he could to get Kenny to stop, (Everyone noticed that Kenny wasn't himself when he was high) but Kenny refused. When Cartman wouldn't drop the subject, Kenny got enraged and blew things all out of proportion. Things were said and things were done on both sides that shouldn't have. And for the first time in my life, I saw Eric Cartman actually upset about something. Kenny refused to talk to Cartman, no matter how many pleas Cartman gave. After being a loner for a while, Kenny started to hang out with the only other masochistic, druggie students at the school: the goths.

Cartman may never admit it to anyone, but he did care about his friends. His appetite was stunted when he realized all three of them had gone their seperate ways, and he lost a bunch of weight. He's still a little overweight, but he's a more healthy size now. He still doesn't have a formal "group," he just kind of wanders around and hangs out with anyone that wants to hang out with him. He had a hard time getting along in school, so he left South Park High and began a homeschooling program. He had to work with a teacher five times a week, for three subjects a day. His mother is still too much of a crack-whore to offer him any help, so he had to put all of his money he gets from his job at the movie theatre together to hire a private tutor. He's still the same intolerant, racist, manipulative bastard he's always been.

It's clear that I'm going to have to come up with a seperate plan for all of them, leave a few days in between each murder so they'll have more emotional trouble. All of these memories flooding back and they'll all probably feel the regret of drifting apart. _Oh, it's so horrible._ Watching them suffer, unknowingly living their last few days, and using their pain and tears as the power I am now feeding off of.

But who shall be the first to go? Which has caused me more pain and trouble than the rest? More memories come to mind, and within minutes the answer is clearly imprinted in my brain.

_Eric Cartman must die._


	3. Continuegive up?

To whoever decides to read this:

Should I continue this story, or should I just let it go?

I've been a little busy lately and I was just wondering if you think this story is worth being continued.

Thank you.


	4. The dinner

Now if there's one thing everyone in South Park knows, it is that Eric Cartman is a manipulator. To be honest, he's probably one of the most manipulative people in the country, if not the world. At the age of eight, he had tricked the government as well as formed a plot to get two people killed, chopped up, and made into chilli- and feed said chilli to their son, who had tried to trick Eric. He was feared by the majority of his peers, and adored by all adults. (Aside from Sheila Broflovski, who had very good reasons to despise the child.)

If you asked anyone at his school how they would describe him, they would say, "He's a racist, intolerant, manipulative, fatass bastard." However, if you were to ask an adult, they would call him an innocent, misunderstood child.

Since the previous night, there's only been one thing running through my mind... _how do you trick the most dangerous person you know? _And so far, none of my plans seem good enough. I need something huge. Something that will be able to terrify even Eric.

As I sat and continued pondering the things Eric has done, I feel a warm bile rising up in my throat. _Just the thought of him makes me sick. _I swallow back the slime and fall back into my thoughts.

It was about four o' clock when I came up with the only thing that would possibly leave him vulnerable. _Food._

Eric liked to eat. In fact, Eric _loved_ to eat. His nickname wasn't fatass for no reason.

I called all of the people in my class. (Which, I should add, isn't very many people at all.) I invited them to my house for a dinner party. I said the only things I could think of to get them all to come: free food, no parents_._ My reason? I was 'having trouble coping with my parent's death and needed my friends.' Even the kids in South Park had a little sympathy. The only two that didn't were none other than Eric Cartman and Craig Tucker.

Eric was only coming for the free food. Although he didn't say it, I knew it was true.

As for Craig, he would do anything to get away from the constant nagging of adults. He stayed quiet about it, but everyone knew Craig had home problems. Sometimes you could hear the screaming from the roads, and the next days Craig would show up at school bruised and in pain, or he wouldn't show up at all. Being the asshole he is, he said he was only coming to get away from adults. He did not forget to add the classic line, "I hate you, Butters," before hanging up on me.

Turning to look at the clock, I realize it was almost quarter 'til five. I had until seven to fix a meal of huge proportions for Eric, Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Craig, Clyde, Wendy, Tweek, Token, Red, Kevin, Jimmy, Timmy, Bebe, Terrance, Christophe, Annie, Damien, Gregory, Pip, Mark, Thomas, Rebecca, Francis, Lizzie, Jason, Bill, Millie, Fosse, Henrietta, Gary, Tammy, Scott, Dogpoo (does that kid have a real name?), and even Trent Boyett. Is it even possible to make that much food in such a short amount of time? Unlikely. There's only one solution: KFC. KFC happens to be Eric's favorite type of food, he's known to consume it in inhumane quantities.

Getting the food would be no problem, since I was left with all of my parent's money. I call the restaraunt, and five of every thing on the menu. Hoping it would be enough, I grab the keys to my mother's car and head out the door. I can't help but to think how much easier things had been for me since my parents were gone. Hm, wherever they are now I hope they finally realize what unfit parents they were...

The sound of a car horn abruptly stopped my thoughts. I realize that I had run right through a stop sign, causing an older-modeled truck to skid sideways. I really need to stop spacing out when I'm driving.

In approximately fourty-five minutes, the food was done. Not wanting to wait around any longer than needed, I handed the cashier a 500 dollar bill and ran out the door. The back seat was full with food, and there was no way to avoid the irresistable scent of chicken and gravy. I reach back and grab a chicken wing and a container of gravy. I was too caught up in my thoughts to even realize that I was pulling into my driveway. _One of these days, that's going to end up killing me. _

Struggling to carry the multiple (should I mention HEAVY) bags of food, I stumble up the brick pathway to my house. Finally finding the right key, I open the door and hustle to the dining room. Once there, I heave the bags onto the table and collapse into an old-fashioned wooden chair. Without a doubt, the past few days have been the most eventful of my life. A quick glance at the clock tells me that it is six fourty-three.

I grab plates and split the food into portions. I give everyone an equal amount of food, and label the plates with name tags. Everyone has always known me to be one of the most organized people in my grade, aside from Kyle, Token, and sometimes Wendy. Realizing I have little time left, I run upstairs to the bathroom and pull out a box of pills. They're muscle relaxers, I had to take them for a while after an incident with Trent after he got back out of juvinile hall. Thankfully, anger management classes did wonders for the terrifying (I mean, seriously terrifying. I've never seen the son of Satan so much as flinch at anything before Trent was released.) boy and there have been no further problems involving him. From what I remember, those pills could put anyone to sleep within a half an hour. I slip two from the bottle, throw it aside, and run back downstairs. Just as I was finishing crushing the pills into Eric's gravy, I head my doorbell ring.

It came as a shock to me that someone actually had the decency to show up even a few minutes early. I open my door to find Kyle Broflovski standing in the doorway, looking uninterested and bored, to say the least.

"Oh, hey Kyle!" I think my fake enthusiasm seems real enough, and I grin, pleased.

"Hey... Butters." He's avoiding eye contact, I notice. Sometime in freshman year, Clyde got mad at me over something that made no sense whatsoever and started a rumor that I was gay for Kyle. It seemed everyone believed it; well, everyone except for the goth kids and Gregory. The goth kids didn't care about anyone's 'conformist lies and ideas' and Gregory had come out as gay sometime shortly before the rumor started, and he knew he was the only gay male in their year. However, no amount of arguing was going to change the minds of those ignorant...

"Uh... Butters?" Shaking my head and widening my eyes, I realize that I was spacing out again. I bring my eyes up to Kyle's, who is looking at me with a confused and annoyed expression. Well, that is, until our eyes meet. He quickly tears his eyes from mine.

"O-Oh, hamburgers. I'm sorry 'bout that, Kyle. Come inside, I got a..a whole bunch'a food ready for everyone. I'm awfully sorry to make you wait, but could ya just wait in the livin' room 'til the others get here?"

"Yeah. Okay," was all Kyle said before turning on his heels and walking in a slow and unsure manner to the room and sitting down awkwardly on the couch.

A few painfully long moments passed before more people started to show up, people were now coming in a steady flow. The last of them arrived at seven ten, Damien. To be honest, I was a bit shocked to see Damien on my doorstep, looking uninterested but not at all angry. He had really mellowed out since high school began. Growing up, he was constantly angry, burning things and cursing everyone. But, then again, growing up in Hell, having Satan as your father and Saddam Hussain as a step-mother would cause anyone some serious emotional problems, demon or not.

Stepping aside and closing the door behind the two of us, I lead him to the living room.

"Okay, so everyone's he-ya. Can we eat now, fag?" Of course, leave it to Eric to pull a fag joke.

"Y-yeah.. I suppose we can" I had never been good around a lot of people, and I was now nervously knocking my knuckles together. Some habits just never die.

They all reach the dining room, searching for the plates with their names.

"Haha... name tags. That's gay." 

"He's gay. Hahaha." Of course, Bill and Fosse. My face was growing red, half with embarassment and half with anger. Giggles and mumbles of agreement were the only things I heard- at least, until-

"Stop eet. At least 'e 'ad ze courtesy to eenvite yoo to 'is 'ouse for food."

The laughing abruptly stopped as Christophe spoke up. Almost everyone in the room was afraid of the French boy, with all of the rumors that he is a mercenary and that he will kill anyone that so much as looks at him wrong. Set aside Eric Cartman, who doesn't seem to be afraid of anything.

"Ha... Christophe is a fag too!"

A second later, there was a dead silence as Christophe jumps towards Eric, holding the end of his shovel to Eric's throat. As if that wasn't shocking enough, a moment later, the shovel caught fire and burned until there were just bits of metal and ash left. Without much hesitation, the whole crowd turns to face the anti-christ, who is standing in the corner of the room with a smirk on his face. Christophe turns to attack the boy that burnt his beloved shovel, and Damien points a finger in Christophe's direction. Someone had to stop it before it got out of control, and that someone happened to be Wendy Testaburger. Just as soon as Christophe springs forward and Damien's finger had a flame at it's tip, Wendy stepped into the middle. The two stopped, momentarily confused by the female's bold action.

"You guys, stop it! We aren't here to fight! Every time we all get together, it's ruined with someone's random outburst turned into a huge fight. Now if you'll just suck it up and stop fighting, I want my damn food." With that, she turned and walked out of the room, nose pointed towards the sky.

Christophe and Damien exchanged confused looks, all anger suddenly wiped out, and resumed mindless chatter with their peers.

Finally, the whole group was settled into their seats and began to eat. I noticed Eric's eyes light up at the sight of KFC and I could have sworn I saw a small trail of drool escape from his mouth.

I wasn't paying attention to small talk of my classmates. I was thinking, yet again. Thinking of ways that I could get them all. Well, set aside Damien. I don't think there was a way for anyone to actually kill Damien. Damn that demon boy! (No pun intended.) I thought that Pip would be one of the easiest, he's too stupidly oblivious, he wouldn't even realize that Butters was going to lash against him at any second. Then there was Kyle. What could be done about Kyle? He was a genius at almost any topic, and has an extraordinary sense of when things are weird. Christophe would probably just take my head off with a shovel, I'm not too sure if I would want to kill him. He's never done anything wrong to me, has he? What about Clyde? Well, Clyde's the one that damaged my reputation even more, I didn't think that was possible. Though he has grown quite a bit, he's still known to cry in stressful situations. I think about how awesome it would be to hear Clyde's crying as I...

"...the fuck?" I hear.

"O-oh, what?"

"What the fuck are you laughing at, Butters?" Token asks, obviously confused and a little startled, "You sounded like a freaking maniac." 

"Oh, I'm awful sorry. I was just thinkin' 'bout somethin' I saw at KFC earlier." I knew no one would care to ask the story, since it was coming from me.

"...uhm, okay then." A few awkward moments of silence, "But anyways, on my birthday, my dad is planning this really big party for me. My mom let it slip that I'm actually getting a convertable. It's so awesome, I've always wanted one."

"I wish I could afford a car. Even a junky car would be nice, as long as it runs."

"Maybe you should get a job, po' boy."

"You're one to talk, fatass. You've never had a job either." 

"Ay! Shut yo' Jew mouth!"

"You guys! Seriously." Stan pinched the bridge of his nose before glaring at the others. "We don't even talk anymore, and you guys are fighting like this is still an everyday thing."

"Anyways, that's pretty awesome, Token. You gonna let me drive it some?"

"Clyde, I'm not sure I could trust you to drive," Token laughs and Clyde gives him a hurt look. "Oh, you know I'm just kidding Clyde. But really, can you drive?"

"A lot better than Craig." Craig looks up, drops a piece of chicken, and flips him off. Of course, it's Craig's trademark. No one could flip the bird quite like Craig.

"Gah! Too much p-pressure!"

"Tweek, ol' chap, there isn't any pressure. It's-"

"SHUT UP PIP!" Jason yelled at the British boy. It was strange seeing Jason dislike someone. (other than myself, of course) He was usually so neutral about things.

"Right-o." Pip looked back at his plate, with a sad smile on his face.

_"_Haha, look at this," Bill points to his cell phone screen, "That's so gay."

"Haha. That's gay."

"I don't quite understand why you boys always say everything is so gay. That term can be quite offensive to those of us who actually are gay." None other than Gregory, of course.

"Haha. You're so gay."

"Yes, Fosse, I am 'so gay.'"

Awkward silence.

"Timmah?"

"Y-yes, Timmy. Gregory is g-g-gay. Everyone a- everyone acc- everyone accepts him though. He's still a r-really cool g-g-guy."

"Timmah." Timmy smiles. Although Jimmy is the only person that really knows what Timmy means when he speaks, they all know this means he doesn't mind.

"Did any of you guys see that one Star Wars episo-" 

"God damn it, Kevin!"

"What? I'm not allowed to speak?"

"Maybe if you'd talk about something we care about, you could." Eric smirked before stuffing his face with some more food. "You know, KFC gravy is really fucking awesome."

"Y-yeah, I know it is, Eric."

"Oh shut up, fag."

Damien stands up quickly, he looks my way and flashes a small, barely there smile. "Well, thanks for the food, Butters. As much as I want to stay on Earth, my dad will get pretty pissy if I don't get home soon."

"Well, it's really no problem, Damien. I'm glad 'ya came."

Before I could finish my sentance, Damien had dissappeared. That was one of his demonic hell powers, or whatever you're supposed to call them. It's kind of sad that Damien can't live in South Park. He's really not that bad of a kid, despite the fact that he's the offspring of Satan.

Wendy and Kyle were now caught up in some political talk with Gregory, Stan was uninterested and looked drowsy. Clyde, Craig, and Token kept talking about how rich Token was. Bill and Fosse were characteristically laughing and calling everything gay, Kevin and Jason were now talking, Tweek was muttering something about underpants gnomes. The rest of the girls were probably gossiping, considering the occassional squeal from their end of the table. 'Dogpoo' had stayed silent through most of the meal. Kenny and Christophe, both of which had died and came back, were talking about life in hell.

Eric got up from the table, looking very tired. He stumbled a bit, then made his way to the couch. Within a few minutes, he was snoring, knocked into a deep sleep. _Perfect_.

After a while, I started ushering people out. It was getting a bit late, and there was one more thing I wanted to accomplish tonight.


	5. The Disgusting Death of Eric Cartman

A/N: I'm not too happy with the last chapter. I really didn't intend on any of that stuff happening, and I wasn't too sure where I was going with it. But I guess it did help me shape up the plot a bit, so it's okay. Haha. I've been in a writing mood, so here's my second chapter tonight. I tried to kill him in the most gruesome way possible, though I'm not sure if I succeeded. Review please? :)

It had been about two hours since the dinner party had ended. I had pulled Eric to a deserted place in the woods of North Park. He seemed to be taking forever to wake up.

I peeked over my shoulder at the large boy. He was shackled to the ground, blindfold covering his eyes. I was beginning to wonder if he would ever wake up, but then he began to stir a bit.

"Wha- ay! Where the fuck am I!" He made an attempt to look around, realizing he had a cloth of some kind tied around his head. "Aw! Sonofabitch! Kahl, you sneaky Jew! You think this is funny?"

I didn't bother saying anything. I didn't need to. Eric's expression changed from one of anger to one of confusion. "Kahl? Is that you?"

I said nothing, I simply stood and walked to where Eric was lying, helpless and confused.

"What tha fuck is going on? Keeeny, this isn't funny! I know you're pissed at me but I'm serious-lyyy." There was a bit of worry in Eric's voice. It sent a shiver down my spine, turning my emotionless stare into a devilish grin.

I pulled a knife from my bag, wearing gloves to keep my fingerprints off. The metallic sound caught Eric's attention. "What tha fuck is that? Craig, you asshole, get me outta he-ya!"

Eric froze when I cut the back of his shirt all the way down, and ripped it the rest of the way off. "Wendy? Jeez if yew really want mah nuts that bad yew could just ask." He sounded cocky, but still worried.

I took the point of the knife and began carving words into his back. He screamed, naturally, and I had to put a gag in his mouth. Well, I don't really think taking his socks off and shoving them in his mouth qualifies as a gag, but whatever it took to shut him up. He was struggling to get out, but he slowly began to realize there wasn't a way out of this. He whimpered a few words, words that I could make out as, "Christophe? You're not a fag, it was a joke! Lemme outta he-yaaa!" I was almost sure Eric was crying, but I wasn't about to stop.

I continued writing with the blade on his back, blood making a lovely ink substitute. Jotting down my suppressed feelings towards him, slowly, painfully. Eric's twisting was only making it worse for him, as it pushed the knife deeper into the layers of fat. What were the words, you may ask? Almost every insult I could think of was inscribed somewhere on his back. I left one bare spot right in the middle. I sure as hell wasn't going down for this, which is why in that bare spot, I carefully cut the name, "Kenny." It made sense, sure. Kenny was still really mad at Eric, and he was also known to be a little bit crazy.

I reached up and took the socks out of his mouth. He coughed for a few minutes, whimpering in pain. He then muttered, "Gregory? Pip? Bebe? Who tha fuck are yewww?" He was crying, probably out of pain and self pity. He would never honestly feel sorry for anyone other than himself.

I look to my left, and I pat the unopened bag of salt. "Do you like salt, Eric?"

"What? What tha fuck? Who are yew?"

"Answer my question, Eric. Do you like salt?" 

"Well, yes. But that doesn't answer my question. WHAT THA FUCK? WHO ARE YOU?"

I tear open the bag and pour it's contents onto his back. He was screaming and wrenching in pain, grumbling and groaning and making inhumane noises. Finally, after about five minutes, he calmed down.

"I thought you were never gonna stop." I position myself in front of him and tear the blindfold from his face.

He looks around to see where he is before he fixes his puffy, bloodshot eyes on me.

"What's the matter, Eric? Can't 'ya handle a little pain? I thought 'ya was supposed to be the tough one."

"BUTTERS WHAT THA FUCK ARE YEW DOING? GET ME THA FUCK OUTTA HE-YAA!" He looked angry.

I pick up my knife from the ground. I realize he can't move his hands, and I place the knife atop his pinky finger.

"Now, Eric, I really don't think you're in a positon to tell me what 'ta do."

"I TOLD YEW TO GET ME THA FUCK OUTTA HE-YA!"

I press down on the knife, hard. From the look on his face, he's in shock. I look at the ground, noticing the blood pouring from the spot his now-severed pinky finger used to be.

Knowing he would not be shutting up anytime soon, I grab a nice sized stone and brought it down on his head. He was unconscious for a second time, and I now had time to set up part two.

I was now waiting in a surveillance room at an old warehouse. Eric had just woke up, and was confused as to where he was. All he knew is that there was a large mirror on one of the walls, and the room was just barely lit. He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. When he looked at his right hand, he was shocked at all of the blood, and of course the realization that he's missing a finger.

"Butters, you better get me tha fuck outta he-ya! Now!"

"Eric, you're not in control now." My voice sounded so innocent and calm, it almost shocked me that I could sound so nice in a situation like this.

"What tha fuck have I ever done to you Butters?"

I hit a button, and a light turned on, reflecting light on a small journal on the floor. I had kept journals of the things people had done to me. Most of them had involved Eric in one way or another. He opened the journal and looked through the pages, probably barely reading.

"That was like, a few times, Butters! Come on! When this is over we can be friends and I'll never rip on you any more, no matter how faggy yew are!"

"When this is over, there won't be an Eric Cartman. You ain't gettin' out, Eric!"

Reality seemed to have hit him like a brick wall. He broke down, crying, right in the middle of the room.

"Aw, Eric. Don't cry. It ain't like 'ya to show weakness. O-oh, wait, you are the weak one now. Now really, stop cryin'. There's a good side to this for 'ya."

"What tha fuck could be good in this?" 

"I'm givin' 'ya some food. Can't let 'ya go hungry, can I?"

"Food? You're giving me food? What tha fuck, Butters?"

"Well yeah, Eric, and if you can't eat it all, I'm just gonna hav'ta kill 'ya even slower an' more painfully."

"Uh, what?" Eric turned around and found a box full of cheesy poofs and all kinds of other foods. "Oh, hell yea!" He began to eat.

About five minutes later, Eric looked discusted, sick, and pale. "No. More. Food." He fell to the ground.

"Aw, really? I thought 'ya could do it. Guess I'm gonna have to pour some acid on 'ya or cut off some more limbs... or somethin'."

"No! Nono. I can do it!" Eric began to force more food into his mouth. A few bites later, he threw up the food. Clenching his stomach, he fell over in defeat. "Goddamnit." With that, he slept.

I was trying to hold in my laughter, as well as my vomit. Seeing other people's vomit made me want to toss my cookies. However, I felt sickly satisfied. However, I was not done. I struggled to hoist a very heavy and very unconscious Eric Cartman into a chair. I taped him to the chair, I tied him with a rope, I gagged him. I really gave him no escape.

I had something in my hand that was very dangerous. I had some corrosive acid that I had stolen from Mephesto's lab, and I had a syrenge. Being extremely careful, I filled the syrenge with the acid and waited.

When Eric awoke for the third time, he was in a different setting. Now, he was in the middle of the Middle Park park. He didn't seem to realize me sitting by his side until I said his name.

His eyes suddenly grew larger than I'd ever seen them before. He was scared, he was purely terrified, and it was disgustingly entertaining. It lightened my mood and gave me a sweet, sinful high. Knowing that he was petrified at the mere sight of me, and seeing him completely vulnerable made me smile. It wasn't a normal smile, it was a smile like none I'd ever had before. Pure evil, not the pure innocence I used to convey.

Still looking into the eyes of my victim, I show the syrenge. I'd known Eric was afraid of needles, but now he needed to be afraid of what was in it.

"Afraid of needles, are 'ya, Eric? Aw, it's no big deal. Really. What's inside of it might be though." I smiled a toothy grin, "'Ya see, what's in here is corrosive acid. Do 'ya know what that is?" He shook his head no, and I laughed, "Well, 'ya see, it's acid that will dissolve whatever it touches."

His eyes widened even more, if that was possible, and he went completely pale. Attempts to thrust and kick out of the chair were made, none were successful. "You're only makin' this harder on yourself." I said, with a sarcastic attempt to sound sympathetic.

I pressed down on his left arm and giggled. Like it really needed any extra restraint. It seemed nearly impossible to move it, and Eric had temporarily frozen. I took the needle and moved it closer to his arm. I looked up to see what Eric was doing. He looked at me with the most guilt-ridden and terrified face I had ever seen. Not just on him, but anyone. And along with that, there were unfallen tears in his eyes.

"Let it out, fatass." With that he sobbed. He grumbled something that sounded like an apology, though it was hard to hear through the layers of tape. It sounded as if he was pleading, but I was no longer the sweet, forgiving young boy I was two days ago. Now I'm a monster, and I don't care who I hurt, so long as I'm getting entertainment out of it.

"Aw, Eric. I knew 'ya never really meant anything. I'll untie you now." I reached towards the ropes and began fiddling with a knot. I looked at the hopeful expression on Eric's face, and said a single word, "Not!" His expression fell, all of his hope was lost. I could see it in his eyes.

The last glance at Eric Cartman was one I'd never forget. It was the one where I saw him completely hopeless, helpless, pleading, and weak. It made me feel powerful. I look at his arm, and quickly pierce the needle into a bulging vein. Screams were heard, and Eric slumped over. Whatever was going on inside of him couldn't be pretty, and I just turned and walked away. I walked away from the scene like it never happened. I walked back to my house, went to my room, and slept.

I couldn't yet understand why I felt no guilt. I'd killed three people, three people that trusted me.

I sent them all to Hell. I already knew that's where they were going, I just sped up the process a little. Is there really something wrong with that?


	6. The Demise of Clyde

**A/N: Long wait, I know. Sorry, I've been so busy with schoolwork and other work and family that I haven't had much time to myself. I've realized that the way I write this makes me seem insane... I'm not, I'm actually not a violent person at all. XD Haha.. anyways, if you read, you should review!**

In the morning when I woke up, I realized I didn't feel like myself anymore. I was no longer the sweet and innocent Butters that everyone loved to hate, I was just twisted and disgusting. Never before in my life had I thought of doing the things I'd done in the past week, yet I now find myself addicted to watching people I once trusted being tortured, the inhumane screams of pain, and the feeling of power it gives me. If it's possible to say, I don't even think I'm Butters anymore... I don't know what I am now, but I love it.

Child Protective Services took my little sister away today. They took her to an orphanage to find her a new foster family. Since I'm old enough to provide for myself, they let me stay. They threatened to take me too, but you must remember I live in South Park, and people will leave almost anything alone if you bribe them.

Well anyways, I'm not in a very good mood today. My sister was taken, I'm out of money, and I didn't get enough sleep. I'm planning to do some damage after sunset, but I'm not sure what. To pass some time, I lie down on the comfortable sofa and watch television. Terrance and Phillip reruns. I think everyone in our grade has grown out of Terrance and Phillip. Well, maybe.

I can't seem to understand why any of us ever thought this show was so funny. It's just some cartoon with crappy animation, that is nothing but constant farting and Canadian accents. However, I don't know how or why we did anything we did in elementary school. At eight years old, the majority of children in my class had been through more crazy stuff than any normal person does in their lifetime.

At last, six o'clock rolls around. I turn off the television and begin to browse the kitchen. I've never been much of a cook, so I'm not sure how to make anything. After about fifteen minutes of searching, I decide on a can of spaghettio's.

I can honestly say that these are the nastiest spaghettio's I've ever tasted.

After I'm full, I put away some uneaten spaghettio's, but I remain at the kitchen table, just thinking about life and how mine has been a living hell. I remember all of the times I was used, tricked, laughed at, hurt, nearly killed, replaced, and made fun of. In elementary school, they just called me girly and left me out. In middle school, things got escaladed and everyone made fun of me and stole my lunch money. In high school, I've been beat up, my stuff has been vandalized, I've been called gay numerous times, I'm the laughing stock of the entire class, and many other things.

And I had never done anything about it. I sat and took it my whole life. Well, I guess what I'd heard was right: at some point, everyone breaks; no matter how strong they are.

It's eight o'clock pm, and I'm standing on the doorstep to the Donovan's house. I ring the doorbell twice, and I wait.

When the door is opened, my gaze is met by that of a very confused and irritated looking Clyde.

"What the hell do you want, gay-boy?" What a nice greeting.

"Clyde, can you come outside for a few minutes? Craig wanted me ta get you."

An even more confused look sweeps over his face, and in his nasally voice, he speaks, "Craig? Why the hell were you with Craig? Some weird shit's going on lately."

"O-oh, I wasn't with Craig. I was on my way ta the store ta get some food when I saw Craig sittin' on his porch. He said that I'd better go ta your house and get you, otherwise he'd b-beat me up. He didn't tell me what it was 'bout, but it sounded real important."

"Uhh, okay. Get out of my way, fag." He pushes past me and starts to walk towards Craig's house. I pull a rag out of my pocket. It should be enough to knock him out for a little while. I charge up behind him. A bit startled, he turns around, and tries to hold me back. However, I'm a fast person, and I get the hand with the rag over his face. He falls to the ground, unconscious. This is going to be a good night.

Since Clyde is on the chubby side, I brought my mom's old car. There is no way a tiny boy like me is going to be able to lug him all the way to the warehouse.

Pulling up to the warehouse, I check all directions to make sure there is nobody around. I know South Park is too poor to afford proper surveillance cameras, so there is no need to check for those. I cautiously step out onto the snowy road and make my way around to the passenger side of the vehicle. I open the door slowly so Clyde won't fall out on top of me. I lie him down on the sidewalk, and pull him legs-first into the building.

After I get him situated, it is about five minutes before he wakes up. I have pretty good timing, if I do say so myself. So, of course, the first thing he does when he wakes up is look around with a confused and nervous expression. When he sees me on the other side of the room, his expression turns to anger.

"Oh, what are you gonna do to me, fag? Ass-rape me?" He smirks to himself, obviously (and should I say, stupidly) impressed with his insult.

"No, not exactly, Clyde."

He looks to my side, where he sees a can of gasoline. Clyde has never really been intelligent (remember, five times two equals twelve) so he can't figure out what is going on. He attempts to stand up, obviously not taking notice to the shackles that are bolted to the floor, attached to his ankles and wrists. And, right on cue, the confusion is back.

"Uh, retard, if you're trying to rape me, why did you make it so my ass is _facing _the floor?"

"Uhm. Clyde, I'm not a fag, and I'm most definitely not goin' ta rape _you_."

"Oh, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. You're too stupid ta figure it out."

"Whatever, asshole."

I don't reply to that. I don't need to. I lean over and pick up the can, then I walk to Clyde's side.

"What's that, your fag-lube?"

I pay no attention to his moronic comment. I screw the lid off and begin to pour the gasoline onto him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He looks annoyed, as well as worried.

I step back, and pull the box of matches from my pocket. "Shut up, Clyde." I strike the match, and his eyes show terror. He looks almost as if he's one of the kids from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, about to be killed.

"Don't fucking do what I think you're gonna do!"

And so I do. I do exactly what Clyde thought I was going to. I threw the match, and watched him go up in flames. I watch him as he's twisting, screaming, and presumably crying. But I can't watch for too long. I turn to grab the old fire extinguisher, which is located on the wall behind me. I spray out the flames, but Clyde's cries do not stop.

"What the fuck was that for? What are you doing? Are you a fucking psycho?" He's screaming his words, and sobbing in between questions. How lovely.

I want to answer his last question. I want to say that yes, I am a psycho. I want to tell him that I am, in fact, crazy. And I want to tell him why I'm doing this. However, I cannot seem to form the words in my mind. I cannot get the words to come out of my mouth.

I just stare. I stand, and I stare. And now, he's just crying. Crying and staring right back at me.

"Do you know why I'm doin' this?"

"No! That's why I fucking asked you!" 

I pull another match from the box, just to watch him cringe. And right on cue, that's exactly what he did.

"Now, don't go gettin' all huffy, Clyde. I'm doin' this because you're one of them. You made my life a livin' hell."

A look of confusion, and obviously pain. "What the fuck do you mean? How'd I do that."

"You said that I was gay. You helped 'em b-bully me, every day, since we was jus' little kids."

"You mean... You're not a fag? Seriously?" He looked tired. He looked like he was about to slip away from his consciousness once more, this time forever. I couldn't let that happen yet.

"No. I'm not. You told 'em all these things that made me even more of an outcast than I a-already was. You made fun'a me, but ya don't know what it's like, Clyde. You never had ta be the social reject. You've never been the one that's hated by everyone b-because of some stupid lie."

And suddenly, the sad moment I'd had turned completely to rage, and I dropped everything I'd been holding. I turned to my side and grabbed the two one-gallon bottles of lemon juice I'd bought at the store. Screwing the lids off as fast as possible, I turn towards him and pour the contents onto his bleeding, burnt body.

If it's possible, the screams I hear now are louder than the screams I'd ever heard before. Louder than the ones of Eric, louder than the screams that I made when I was being beat by my parents, being chased at school, when I was just too frustrated and couldn't do anything about it. These screams were drowning out every other scream I'd heard.

Twisting, cringing, eyes wide. His eyes were tear-filled and he was sobbing uncontrollably. It was so disgusting to watch, yet it's like a car crash: it's just so horrible, but you can't take your eyes off of it. He was losing his strength. His screams were silenced, his sobs were stopping, and his moving was ceased, down to the occasional twitch.

With the last ounce of energy he had, he looked at me, eyes sincere, and said, "I'm sorry."

I stand and watch as he stops moving completely, his chest stops rising, and his mangled body loses it's life. I walk closer to the body, smiling, and can't help but to give it a kick to the side. Just to check, I tell myself, but I'm not really too sure that's why.

I climb into the car, in a daze, and drive home. I barely paid attention to the road, which was dangerous; but then again, everything I'd been doing was dangerous.

I reheat some of my uneaten spaghettio's, and 'enjoy' my late night snack.

At eleven o'clock, I turn on the late-night news. I realize that our (now-normal) news anchor is standing outside of the warehouse that I'd been at earlier that day. There were people everywhere, and you could see flashing police lights along with the roar of ambulance sirens. The police chief was standing a few feet behind the reporter, interrogating the sobbing parents of Clyde Donovan and Eric Cartman.

The anchor speaks, "About a half hour ago, the tortured bodies of Eric Cartman and Clyde Donovan were found in this abandoned warehouse. Both boys appear to have undergone some severe trauma. Eric Cartman had been missing since Friday night, and Clyde had been gone from home a little over three hours. Here were statements from the parents of the two teenaged boys."

Mr. and Mrs. Donovan appear on-screen, both sobbing. Mrs. Donovan was completely hysterical, while Mr. Donovan was simply crying: not calm, but not uncontrollable. His face is red. He has his arm around his wife's shoulders, who has her face burried into a white tissue, not showing her face but for a few seconds every so often. It is the man who speaks, "We're not sure what happened to Clyde. The last time we heard from him, he was leaving to go to his best friend Craig's house. As far as we know, Clyde got along with everybody at school just fine. I can't think of anyone that would want to hurt him. All I know is... We loved our son very much, and we hope whoever did this to him will be caught and rot in prison, then burn in hell. We love you, Clyde." With this, he goes hysterical, and the camera pans back to the news anchor.

"Here are a few words from Ms. Liane Cartman."

Liane is trying not to cry, but you can tell she has been. She has mascara stains on the shoulder of her shirt, and there are black lines all down her face. Her eyes are red and bloodshot, her pink lipstick is smeared, and her hair is frizzy and looks unbrushed. She looks like a complete disaster, yet she is able to speak easily, with little problems. Two times she paused to sob a bit and close her eyes, but for the most part, Liane stayed strong. "I do know my poopsykins was a little bossy, and sometimes wouldn't get along with his little friends, but I know none of them would do anything like that. None of them would have the heart to do this, I know every one of the boys. And with all of the murders going on, I think that the citizens of South Park needs to be more cautious. First there was Mr. and Mrs. Stotch. Their children have been emotionally scarred and are obviously hurt by the loss of their parents. Those two children have been split up because of this sick bastard. And then there's my poopsykins and that nice little Donovan boy. Whoever could do such a thing is simply disgusting." During her last sentance, she broke down and began to cry. The camera went back to the reporter, once again.

"If you have any information about the murders of Mr. and Mrs. Stotch, Clyde Donovan, or Eric Cartman, please call the South Park police. Now back to you, Tom."

I turn the television off. As morbid and horrible as it is of me, I feel no remorse. I feel no regret, and I'm probably the only person in my town right now that isn't in shock or tears. This just feels so right.

I'm going to have a long day of school tomorrow.

I feel as if I haven't slept for days, but I guess that's what Monday mornings do to you. I throw on my loosest clothes, rub my face so it's all red and puffy, and I don't bother combing my hair. I can truthfully say that I look distressed.

I walk slowly to the bus stop. I'm not sure if I should have bothered looking sad. It isn't like anyone pays enough attention to me to see if I'm sad or not. But I do it, just to be safe. They all think I'm 'the emotional fag' anyways.

I board the bus, and go to my seat with Dougie near the back. I sit, staring out the window, and I hardly realize that Dougie is talking to me.

"Listen, Butters. I'm sorry about what happened to your parents and your friends. You should really try to calm down, you look like you've been crying all night." So it worked. I'm pleased with myself.

At school, I drag my feet all the way to my locker. I keep my eyes glued to the ground for the most part, but when I do look up, I see that South Park High seems to be a completely different place. Instead of teenagers engaging in PDA at their lockers, there are best friends hugging and crying; instead of the pranksters like Craig and Token laughing, they look dead, and Craig doesn't even bother calling me a fag as I walk by. There are pictures on the walls of the two boys. I see Bebe standing next to a picture of Clyde that is taped to the wall. She is sobbing, yet staring intently at the photo; her best friend Wendy is rubbing her back, looking at Bebe with eyes full of worry and sorrow. She looks like she's been crying, as well.

Finally reaching my locker, I see that there is a note taped on it. I didn't realize it at first, but every locker has one. Apparently, there is a memorial dinner for Clyde and Eric this Friday at 5:30. I'll go, everyone is going to be there.

Someone obviously stayed up all night to do this.

And then I see who it is. I see a still dead looking Craig walking along the walls of the school, taping posters, pictures, and notices on the wall. I see Token trailing behind, handing out papers to those who hadn't gotten them. It's odd enough to me, the two school badasses are actually doing something for someone other than themselves; but I suppose I'd be the same way if my best friend had been killed. (If I even had one.)

My locker is by the office bulletin board. I see that right next to my locker, there is a table. There are candles, school photographs in frames of Clyde and Eric, and a photo album of all of the South Park sophomores through the years. The bulletin board behind the table is filled with papers. Printed in very large print, the bulletin board reads: "In memory of Clyde Donovan and Eric Cartman: 1994-2010. Rest in peace." How original.

The bell rings, and I grab my books to go. I steal one last glance at the table, the one that wouldn't be there if not for me. First hour, chemistry. Oh, great.

I arrive to class early, and I realize I haven't done any of my homework for the weekend. Oh, hamburgers. Oh well, they'll understand, I'm sure.

The classroom is quiet. I've never expirienced such peace at South Park High. I'm sure it's selfish of me to call it peaceful when everyone is grieving, but it doesn't matter.

I hear a voice, but I'm not paying attention. I assume that the voice is that of my chemistry teacher, Mr. Smith.

Of course, I'm right. He begins to walk through the rows of desks, gathering papers from solemn students. Before I realize, he's standing beside my desk. I'm staring intently at my notebook.

"Mr. Stotch, can you explain to me why you haven't done your homework?" I look up to meet his gaze with a fake look of sadness, and his anger supresses to pity. "Oh, Butters, I'm sorry. I forgot about your parents passing, you're excused from today's assignment." Success.

I look back to my notebook. The only other words I head him saying are "We're taking a day off our regular work to discuss your friends Clyde and Eric." Then I'm spaced out once more.

This is going to be a very long day.

It is lunch time, at last. A time that I usually dread, because it is then that the bullies steal my money, take my stuff, and shove me around. However, today is different. No one bothers to mess with me, and I sometimes get sympathetic looks from the upperclassmen, as well as freshmen.

It's pizza day. I grab my lunch, give money to a very depressed looking Chef, and sit down alone. I eat my lunch without tasting it. Actually, I eat my lunch without realizing I ate it. I throw my tray away and walk back to my locker. It's time for Spanish class.

I don't understand Spanish. Everyone else has caught on to what she is saying, except for me and, well, Clyde. Now, I suppose it's just me. The teacher is saying something in Spanish, and by the look on her face, I know what it's about.

I see everyone take an awkward and sad glance towards the desk that used to belong to Clyde. I just keep staring forward, at the board, thinking about nothing in particular. I'm just ready to get out of here, none of this school stuff matters to me anymore.

After what seems like forever, the teacher shuts up and allows the class some time to talk. I don't talk to anyone, I just sit. I have nothing to say, and no one to say it to.

I turn to sit sideways in my desk, and watch as the others talk amongst each other. No one smiles, no one jokes, and no one even looks alive. They all look sleep-deprived and lonely, even in their groups of friends. They look as if their lives have been turned to hell. They look like I've imagined myself, every day.

The bell rings and I go to English class. I've given up on bringing my books today; every class is the same. "We're taking a day off for Clyde and Eric." Besides, it isn't like that teacher knows what he's talking about half the time. He's probably about ninety years old, he should be long past retired; however, he's still here. I lay my head on the desk and doze off.

When I wake up, it's to the sound of the bell ringing and people moving. Right on time, once again. School is out for the day. Another Monday down, and I'm relieved, although it seemed like forever.

I've stopped paying attention to the sad faces and the meloncholy mood that has swept over the whole school. I don't care about their suffering, I don't care about their pain; it's almost humorous: they've never cared about my pain, and now, I'm the one that doesn't care about theirs.

I spin my combonation without thinking, and grab my plain, blue bag. I close the locker, and pull off my locker note. I stuff it in my bag and spin around, but I saw something I had never expected.

Black hair, red eyes, all black clothes, and a devilish grin. Do I even need to say who it is? No, I don't think so. Of course, there's only one person that meets that description in South Park; and that person happens to be the most terrifying, evil being in the world. Standing right in front of me is the antichrist; but here in South Park, the antichrist is just another teenager. He is, however, a very scary teenager. He is unapproachable, and hardly ever approaches anyone. So I can't help but be a bit worried, and very curious.

"U-uh.. Hiya, Damien." I try to sound friendly.

With a pleased look in his eye, he says few words, "I know what you did."

And at that, my heart pounded so loud and so fast that I could almost swear it vibrated my whole body.

**A/N: I'm not sure what I should do with this whole Damien thing? Should I just leave it with the fact that he knows, play it into the plot somehow, or what? Also, I'm not sure how this turned out. If you read it, please review.**


	7. Authors note please read

So, I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this.

I've been trying to think of a plot to go with it, but I can't figure it out.

If anyone has any suggestions, please do tell. Because unless I find one, I might give up.

I'm sorry if you're reading this because you thought it was a chapter.

And please, if you've read this, leave a review (it doesn't matter how long or short it is) and tell me what you think. Or, what you think I should do.

Thanks.


	8. New Beginnings

"U-uh... Uhh... Well, gee, Damien.. I... I don't know what you're talkin' about." What kind of fucking idiot tries to lie to the antichrist? The hallways are cleared out by now, he could easily kill me right here.

Suddenly, I'm pushed against a locker and held into place. The creepy thing about it: Damien isn't touching me.

"Don't you fucking lie to me, mortal." There's such a harsh tone in his voice, yet he doesn't look mad. Actually, he looks quite content. After a few seconds, he speaks again, "Calm down, retard. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here on behalf of my father, he sends his thanks. Though you haven't done much yet, you're sending more helpless souls to my father's army. His army is growing stronger by the day."

The unknown presence pushing me against the locker disappears, and I begin walking towards the front of the school, following closely behind Damien.

Damien lets out a sigh and speaks once again, "You see, it would be much easier if I could do this job myself. I, however, am under strict oath to not harm living humans without reason and permission given by my father. If I happen to break this oath, my soul is to be destroyed. I will have no life, no memories, no nothing - just darkness. And there, in that darkness, I will be forced to stay for all eternity," he glances back at me and says, "I fucking hate that oath. My father is always complaining, 'Oh, Damien! There aren't enough souls being damned!' or 'Damien, honey, most of these useless humans are too pansy to go kill their own kind!' but he puts me under his retarded 'it's-for-your-own-good' oath. Fucking stupid ass father."

We walk in silence for a few minutes before I ask a question, "So, why is he having you thank me? It's not like I've done much... I'm just Butters."

Damien stops in his tracks and turns towards me.

"Yes, you are just Butters. But what you don't understand is that you have power much stronger than you've known before. If you help my father enough while you're here on earth, you'll have a spot among the royalties of hell." Why would I want _that_? Isn't hell all hot and full of torture? "Don't be so naiive. Hell isn't anything like the storybook lies they force you to believe. Well, at least not when you're one of Satan's favorite humans." Favorite humans? Who are - "You, dumbass. Sure, he was pretty shocked when he saw that you were behind this, but it's people like you who have the most murderous potential. If you continue to help, you'll be living eternity in flaming paradise with me." A cocky smirk, "And if not, you'll be in hell anyways. Except you'll be strung up by your limbs and ripped to pieces, or burned, or whatever other nasty tortures we decide to put you through. So think about it, Stotch. Paradise in hell, or just plain hell."

Oh, that's _really_ a hard decision. Before I have the chance to answer, yet another cocky smirk crosses the young demon-spawns face and he says, "Wise choice, Stotch." I feel a small smile creeping across my face when Damien says, "But that's not all."

"Well, what else is there?"

"Once you're in hell, you'll have to face all of the lost souls of past friends and family. It isn't an easy thing to do, and most demons that are faced with this end up requesting to be sent to the Darkness."

"I think I can handle it," I say calmly, but the feeling in my gut is saying, 'I don't know if I can.' But I have to. This is what's better for me. For once, it's about me. I have a chance to be in charge of them all now, and I'm going to embrace it. They're going to fear me for all of eternity.

"You got yourself a deal, D-damien."

He looks towards the janitor's closet, and flashes a look of anger. "You better check that out," is the last thing he says before he disappears into a cloud of fog.

I turn towards the closet on my left and walk to the door. Slowly, I turn the knob and open it, a bit scared as to what might be in there. A bit of a suprise to me, Pip is standing there looking stranely serious.

"Uh... Pip?"

"Yes. I would like to confess that I have overheard your conversation, and that I would like to join you." It is then when I take notice to a rather small blonde boy peeking from behind the door. However, I choose to ignore that for now.

"You...you want to _join _me?" I'm confused, very confused.

"Yes, now don't be so shocked. I've been shunned by society as well." For once, there's no laughter in his eyes. There isn't a hint of fear or anger, even after what I've done.

"Well... uh.. I suppose you can help out. Uhm... can I ask who that is?" I point a finger towards the door, and as soon as I do I hear a worried gasp, followed by an outburst of, "GAH!" Yep, it's Tweek.

"Tweek, what are you doing here?" I ask, very confused and a bit suspicious.

"W-well... Pip and I were walking and we overheard you and Damien talking. We were scared at first, so we hid in here. A-and then, we started talking and we decided that the people in South Park have been no kinder to us than they have to you. So we thought that this might be our chance to get back at them." He's lost a lot of his stuttering, twitching, and random noises over the years, and for that, I'm sure everyone's thankful. However, hardly anyone at the school befriended him... just Pip.

"A-and... I want to be in on this, too."

"Are you sure about this?" They both nod their heads. "Well, okay. Meet me at my place at seven."

They both mutter an 'alright' and turn to walk down the hallway, presumably to go home.

So, _what the fuck just happened?_ Seriously, Pip and Tweek? I thought they were both pussies, and I thought they'd accepted being rejects a long time ago? Well, whatever... I guess people think the same thing about me. For now, I'm just gonna go home, kick back, and get some more rest.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Oh, boy. I slept that long?

_Knock. Knock._

"Come in!" I shout, probably sounding a bit more frustrated than I should have been.

I hear the squeaking as the front door is opened and closed, and then two sets of footsteps slowly approaching the front room. Surely enough, within ten seconds, Pip and Tweek are standing in front of me. I can't help but to think that they don't have the slightest clue how to do this, since they're both wearing bright colored jackets and t-shirts.

I sigh quietly and say, "Come upstairs, guys." Once in my room, I begin to rummage through my old clothes.

"What are you doing?" Pip says slowly, as if he's nervous about something.

"What do you think I'm doin'? You guys are wearin' bright colored clothes, I gotta get'cha somethin' else to wear." Finally, I pick out two loose, black shirts. I realize I have but one pair of black pants, so I scurry to my parent's bedroom and begin to scavage through their dressers. I eventually find two pairs of my dad's old pajama pants._ Such a boring man, plain black pajamas._ I walk back into my room and see the two boys have made themselves comfortable on my bed. I toss the clothes in their direction, "Here, wear these tonight. You can't go out there lookin' like that. Won't be hard to find ya then. Don't put 'em on 'til later though." Pip tosses his to the floor, and Tweek folds his into a neat pile and sits them on my nightstand.

"Alright. So, ta make sure you're not tryin' to trick me and that you're not gonna chicken out, I'm gonna test you tonight."

"T-test us? What do you mean?" Tweek asks, looking a slight bit panicked.

"Well, I'm gonna have ta have you kill someone. What else?" I say, sarcastically, of course.

"Oh. Okay," he says. His voice sounds emotionless, which is completely unlike him. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but he waits a few seconds, then closes it again.

"Uh, soo... do you guys have anyone in mind?"

Tweek answers almost immediately after I finish. His answer makes me wonder why he'd want to kill Craig. After all, they had been friends for several years... or maybe that has something to do with it. I'm not sure, and I'm not going to ask any questions yet. Pip just tells me anyone will do. He's says it doesn't matter, just as long as we don't get caught. I reassure him, telling him that the cops in this town are imbosiles and wouldn't ever suspect the three of them.

After a while of chatting about one thing or another, I suggest that we watch some tv and order a pizza. By the time the pizza arives, it's eight fifteen. We decide to turn the movie off, who really cares about these 'heartwrenching' Lifetime movies, anyways? It's not like I feel any pity for these women that lose their boyfriends or husbands or children, or whatever. After all, I take people's children away from them. I take the lives from people that hadn't known that torturing some nerd would end so badly. I don't feel remorse for that, so why should I feel bad for these people that I had never met? They're just actors, paid to act miserable.

We sit down at my kitchen table and begin eating large, hot slices of peperroni pizza in silence. Tweek is looking around nervously, and Pip is wiping his hands on a napkin that he has laid out in his lap. It feels so strange to not be alone and not being made fun of at the same time.

Once the pizza is gone, it is about five minutes til nine. I tell the two of them to go change into their clothes and meet me in the front room. I slip on my baggy black sweatpants and oversized black sweatshirt and sit down in the armchair. After a few minutes, they reenter the room.

"I feel like some kind of ghetto thug in these." Pip says, and I can't help but to snicker, just a bit.

Tweek remains quiet, except for a few words, "Are we going to go get Craig now?"

"Yeah, sure," I say as I toss a pair of gloves at each of them. When I get a puzzled look from each, I give the simplest explanation I can, "Fingerprints." Tweek nods, and Pip just laughs and said he should have known.

I walk out of my house, not bothering to lock the door behind me. The three of us walk down the sidewalk, silent. I assume that Pip and Tweek are just nervous, but I'm debating on how we get Craig out of his house. Of course, if I go up to the door and Mrs. Tucker finds out that her son is dead a few days later, people are going to begin to get suspicious. I had already used that approach on Clyde.

Craig has a first story bedroom. I could send... hm, who's the most muscular of the three of us?... Pip in and get him outside. Since Craig is on both the football and hockey team, we're going to need a plan. So, Pip sneaks in the window, but then what? I could... give him the knife I have in my wallet. I'll have Pip tell Craig he needs to come outside, but to keep the knife in his pocket until Craig resists. If things go according to plan, Craig will come outside with Pip; if not, we're going to have to take things up a notch.

I realize now that we're standing outside of the Tucker house, next to an old oak tree.

"Pip," he looks up at me and waits for me to continue, "I'm going to send you in Craig's window. Just tell him you need him outside for a few minutes to talk to him about... Clyde. Keep this knife in your back pocket, don't pull it out unless he won't come on his own."

"Okay, Butters, but may I ask why I am the one who has to go in?" I've seen so many confused expressions lately that this one looks completely irrelevant.

"Because, you're more muscular than me and Tweek." And it was true. Pip had built up some muscle since coming to high school, but he still hadn't been accepted by the others. Apparently, it was because he was 'French.' Anyone with half a brain would know that he's British.

"Oh, well alrighty." He says before heading towards the window. He opens it cautiously and crawls slowly through the opening.

Surely enough, a few moments later, Pip was returning outside with Craig. He mouths the words, 'that was easier than I expected.' I nod and wait for the two to reach the spot where me and Tweek were standing.

"Oh, no. No no no. Fuck this. Fuck you guys. I'm not gonna talk to _that_." He gives a disgusted look to Tweek, which causes Tweek to jump forward, attacking Craig. Craig quickly gets the upperhand, but before he can get any hits in, he's pinned to the ground by Pip and I. We tie Craig's hands behind his back and drag him to the minivan.

We reach a spot on the outskirts of Fairplay that is completely wooded. The three of us manage to carry a struggling Craig all the way to a clearing deep in the woods. I drop my duffel bag on the ground, and let go of Craig. He falls to the ground and starts cursing even louder than he was before.

"What the fuck does this have to do with Clyde?" He says, clearly pissed off.

"Well, actually, _this_ has nothin' ta do with Clyde." Craig gets even more mad, even though I wasn't sure that was possible.

"THEN WHY THE FUCK AM I HERE? You drag me to the middle of the fucking woods with this goddamned freak, just to tell me that you _lied_ about why we're here? What the fuck do you stupid assholes think you're fucking doing?" His face is beet red and his eyes are full of pure rage. If he wasn't hogtied on the ground, I'd be intimidated.

"Well, ya see. This is a test."

"What kind of fucking test would I be hogtied in, with a bunch of fucking retards around me, in the middle of nowhere at ten at night? You really are fucking stupid."

I unzip the bag and allow its contents to spill onto the ground. A gun, some knives, matches, and a few other small things.

"This ain't _your_ test, it's Tweek's." Now in comes the confusion, with more anger.

"The _fuck_! What the fuck does this asshole have to do with anything?" The veins in Craig's face are popping out of the sides of his head; not much, but a little.

"Well, nothin', 'til now. Do ya know who killed Clyde?" Craig's face fell. The mention of your dead best friend so soon afterwards would hurt anybody.

"No, but what the hell does that have to do with anything?" I smirk, and Craig says, "What the fuck do you know, you dumb little cocksucker?"

"Oh, nothin'. 'Cept _I'm _the one that did it. Eric and my parents, too. And that's where Tweek and Pip come in. They overheard me talking to Damien about it and decided ta give it a try. Ya know, you could stop this whole thing. It's too bad ya ain't gonna live to tell anyone." Craig is obvious shock. He's stopped moving, and has a completely blank facial expression.

"...What did you say?" He says, slowly, as if he thinks he heard me wrong.

"I said I killed Clyde." Oh, the anger is back. It looks as if he's going to explode. He looks absolutely insane right now. If looks could kill, I would be dead.. along with the rest of the world.

"WHAT THE FUCK, YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? How could you DO that? Clyde never did a fucking thing WRONG TO YOU!"

"Oh, 'course not. He didn't make everyone think I was gay or anything, not at all." I say, completely sarcastic.

"YOU ARE A FUCKIN' FAG!"

"Uh, correction. Actually, I ain't," I'm fed up with this, "Tweek, Pip, do your thing."

"W-what?" Tweek says, "What am I supposed to do?"

"Well, kill him in the most disgustin' way you can think of."

"There's not much here." He says, surveying the bag.

"Oh, I know. This is just your test, I wanna see what ya can do."

Both of the puzzled boys look into the bag with a flashlight I gave them. Pip is the first to move. He grabs a small butcher's knife and walks to Craig. "Sorry, ol' chap," he says as he takes off both of Craig's shoes and socks. He grabs one toe at a time, sawing through thick flesh and crunching bones. Craig isn't screaming, no, he's just crying. Crying as hard as I've seen anyone cry, biting his lip. There's a steady line of blood coming from his mouth, as if he thinks not biting his lip would cause him to scream, and screaming would mean he were weak.

Finally, Tweek settles on a small revolver.

"Y-you guys know what Craig's afraid of?"

"N-NO! No Tweek! PLEASE!" Craig says, Pip still sawing away at his toes.

"He's afraid of being deaf." Tweek moves towards Craig's side. Although Craig must be in excruciating pain right now, he attempts to move away from Tweek, as if Tweek is some kind of disgusting disease. Tweek snatches the navy blue chullo hat from Craig's head, revealing a messy mass of black hair. I see Tweek cock the gun and press it onto Craig's ear; it isn't facing his head, but it is in a position to blow Craig's ears off. He pauses for a moment, looks into Craig's eyes, and says, "I'm sorry it had to end this way, but I'll see you in hell, asshole. You should _never_ fuck over Tweek Tweak." He fires one shot, quickly cocks the gun again, and fires another. And it was at that moment that Craig emitted what had to be the most ear-splitting scream I've ever heard, but it was the quietest scream Craig ever heard.

Screams and tears were the only things coming from Craig.

Now the two were pushing needles into his mouth and nose. Pip had finished off his fingers and toes, and looked a little bit proud of himself. Tweek, however, looks like he's on the verge of tears. I would be, too, if I were in that situation... but I had never had a best friend.

Tweek grabs a fork from the bag and pries Craig's eyes from their sockets. He looks at me with saddened eyes and says, "He was afraid of being blind, too." Pip grabs some bleach from the bag and pours a bit into his eye sockets. Screaming is all I can hear. I'm suprised that no one has come to see what was wrong, but afterall, it's South Park.

Unsure of what to do next, they both look at me. Pip doesn't look phased, but Tweek looks a little bothered. There is suddenly no noise, putting all eyes back on Craig. There is one final gasp for air, and he falls motionless. _He's yours now, Damien._ And I could be crazy, but I could swear I heard a thanks in return.

Tweek is the first to stand, and the first to speak. "That felt so good, but it hurt... I wish it hadn't ended this way, but that a-asshole got what he deserved."

Next was Pip, who took the time to rub to dirt off of the pants. "Did we pass?"

All I can do is smile and nod. Maybe it'll be nice to do this with some help.

I don't realize it, but I'm grinning, and I'm running. The feeling of power is back.

It's then that I realize, this is my drug.


	9. You are My Life

**I'm sorry that I've been so slow with this. Everything's just happening at once, y'know?**

**POV SWITCH. (Tweek) **

This can't be real. This HAS to be a dream. There's no possible way that I'm really at Craig Tucker's funeral.

My best friend. Craig. Well, USED to be my best friend.

This is just a nightmare. It can't be him in that casket. It all looks so fake. That's NOT Craig. At least, it's not the Craig I knew.

MY best friend Craig would have wanted to wear jeans and a cheap t-shirt into that casket. He would have found a way to be buried with his middle finger in the air. He would have never gone for that cliche tux and plastic skin look. That's just not Craig. The Craig _I _knew wouldn't be in the casket in the first place.

When we were young, we swore life in South Park would be the death of us. We were terrified that we wouldn't make it to get out of here. I mean, hell... Look at this place... all of the crazy conspiracies, trips to the moon and foreign countries, CIA and government invasions, animals that no one believes really exist. Everything about this place was absolutely crazy.

We laughed it off and said we wouldn't make it. Whether we were joking or not, I'm still not entirely sure. Either way, it still hasn't hit me that he really _didn't_ make it.

The priest begins his sermon or whatever you want to call it... the religious bullcrap at every funeral. Craig wouldn't have wanted this...

_It's a chilly November morning. Craig and I are sitting on a bench outside of a funeral home. He looks so fragile, as if the wrong thing is said, he'll burst into tears. "You know, I don't understand funerals." I look up, interested. "We go to church to hear about religion and God. We come to funerals to 'celebrate their lives' or whatever." I can't speak, I only listen. There are no words of comfort when your sister dies. "I'm not here to listen to this religious crap. I'm here for my sister. I don't want to hear them spew on about God, I want to remember Ruby! I want to laugh at the good times, not to be 'comforted by God's grace' or any of that." He breaks down into short, muffled sobs before I put my arm around him and let him cry into my shoulder. _

I can't listen to this. This isn't what Craig wanted...

_Fourth grade, Mr. Adler's shop class. "Stop screwin' around. Ya screw around too much! Get back to work." I was already finished with the project for the week, so I wander back to a box of scrap wood to kill some time. Unfortunately for me (so I thought) Craig was also in the back of the room. He flips me off, unknowingly, and speaks. "Hey, Tweek... come here." "GAH! O-okay!" I walk towards him, jittering partly because of nervousness, and partly because of my caffine intake. "I just wanted to say sorry." Craig never apologizes. "Ung... What?" He looks at me, seemingly uninterested. "I'm sorry, you know, for the fight. Cartman and those guys are assholes, I shouldn't have listened to them." Something about that set off an alarm in my mind, "GAH! What happened to C-Craig? Oh sweet Jesus are you with the CIA?" Craig chuckles quietly, "No, no. Tweek I'm serious. If you want to be friends, you know, I'm cool with it." His lips turn upwards slightly. I realize that he's serious. "Well... GAH!... sure, Craig." _

_It's baseball season. Craig and I are leaned against the wooden fence while the other guys are eating pizza and going on crazy adventures. He points to a group of boys: I recognize them as Clyde, Token, and Jimmy. "You know, those guys are alright, but they're a little too mainstream for me." I look from Craig to the boys, and back to Craig, "W-What do you mean?" Craig pulls a handfull of grass from the ground and looks up, "You know, they're too 'normal' or whatever. Whenever someone else does something, they're so willing to do it. They don't care about what _they_ really want. They just do whatever it takes to fit in." I nod in agreement, "Yeah, I -GAH- know what you mean. Then those guys," I point towards Kyle, Stan, Cartman, and Kenny, "They're just too crazy. They get themselves into all of these crazy situations and oh Jesus it's just TOOmuch_pressure_!" Craig just smiles and continues, "Yeah, that's why I'm glad you're my friend," he glances in my direction, "You're just the right combonation of the two. You'll do what the others do and go with the flow sometimes, but you don't care. You don't care what they think, you don't try to fit in. Just like me." I feel myself crack a smile as he continues, "It's like we were meant to be best friends."_

_Sixth grade. Oh, yes, the bike phase. Craig and I were the only sixth graders in South Park that didn't get into the whole 'ride-bikes-and-torture-fourthies' thing. While every other sixth grade boy was riding their bikes around town looking for fourth graders to pick on, Craig and I would stay at home and just hang out. One night, we ordered some spicy chicken from City Wok and played video games. Craig could kick my ass at pretty much any video game, I'll admit. After a while, we got bored of the game and decided to watch a movie. I assumed at the time that it would be some funny dude-humor show or a movie with some badass with guns or something, but _luckily_ (sarcasm, of course) for me, Craig's mother had left "The Grudge" for Craig to watch while she was out at her business meeting. Throughout the whole movie, I was terrified. I hid my face in the pillow, I screamed, and I even ran to the other room a few times. (What can I say, I was a paranoid kid.) Craig just sat and stared at the screen, bored expression on his face. After the movie, Craig turned off the TV and left us in the dark. I couldn't help but to scream out, "GAH!" Craig immediately replied, "What, Tweek?" I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I knew the guys probably all thought I was a freak, and my random outbursts didn't help. "I-I... nothing." A few seconds pass and Craig speaks up again, "No, really. What? Are you scared." I'm glad that he couldn't see me blush. "What? No.. o-of course not!" "Tweek, really," he flips on the lamp in the corner of the room, "There's nothing to be afraid of. Here, we'll sleep on the fold-out tonight." He pulls out the bed quickly and adjusts his Red Racer pajama bottoms before sliding underneath the thin blanket. "Thanks," I mutter before following suit. A few minutes later I speak, "Unng.. Sorry, Craig." He looks over and says, "Don't worry about it, it's fine." With that, he drifts off to sleep._

_One afternoon, Craig and I were sitting in my parent's coffee shop along with Wendy and Red. We were on a double-date, and the girls had gone to the 'ladies room,' presumably fixing their make-up. "You know, I'm really glad I have someone to do this with." I was staring at my drink, which I was stirring with a plastic spoon. "Yeah," I speak. "Really, Tweek. You always see all of the other guys and their friends taking their girlfriends out together. I never thought I'd get to do that. Yeah, I talked to the other guys some... but I always thought of myself as the loner. I just never fit in, I never thought I'd have a friend that I could be myself around and have real fun with." Giggling is heard and we both look up to see the girls walking back over to our booth. Craig says, "Thanks, man," pats me on the back, then smiles and greets Wendy while I start talking to Red._

_In seventh grade, Craig weaned me off of caffine. He had always told me that it wasn't good for my health, but I never really paid attention. He made a deal with me one night, "Tweek, if you give up coffee... I'll give up Red Racer." I was confused. Craig would NEVER give up Red Racer. He obviously noticed my dismay and said, "I'm serious. You know how I feel about that stuff. It makes you so paranoid and jittery, I know you don't enjoy it." He was right, I didn't. "I know you're addicted, but you can get over it. I'll give up my addiction if you'll give up yours." And that was it. He made sure I didn't have any coffee, and I didn't have to even check for Red Racer. He'd blocked it completely from his TV. If anyone was commited, it was him. Over time, I got less jittery and less paranoid. Now, I'm basically normal._

_There's one night I'll _never_ forget as long as I live. Craig and I were having a sleepover, like we always do. I was sitting on the side of the couch looking through my biology textbook while Craig was sprawled out on the floor, studying algebra. He drops his pencil loud enough to get my attention, but I continue to read. When I realize he hasn't picked it back up, I look up to see him staring at me. He doesn't look like himself. Then, he begins the most disturbing and deep speech I'd ever heard him make. "Have you ever thought of, you know, just... ending it all?" In shock, I drop my book. "What the hell, Craig?" I'm worried, and it shows through in my voice. "I know, you probably think I'm crazy. But, really. What's the joy in life? You live and you die. And all of that time between... it's just wasted. Wasted on all of this crazy bullshit that everyone wants us to believe is right." I'm at a loss for words. "I mean, how is any human to know what's right and what's wrong? We're just living the way they want us to. Sheltered childhoods, miserable teenaged years, irresponsible college students, then we're shoved into the real world. We have to go out and get jobs, provide for ourselves and our families. We don't know what to do, but we do the best we can. And what do we get out of that? We get to watch them go through the same things as us. We get to sit back watch them make the same mistakes that we did, trying desperately to save them from the evil hand of fate... but we know deep down that nothing can change their minds. Society is all going down hill, and I don't want to see it." He doesn't look the least bit phased. I don't know _what_ to say at this point. He continues, "You know, you see all of these movies where life is this fairytale. Life is this beautiful thing where everything happens the way they want. Everything is so expected. But that's the furthest fucking thing from reality." He shakes his head and speaks on, "Life _isn't_ this beautiful fairytale story where everything will be okay. Life is a different thing for everyone. Sometimes people can escape their miserable fate and actually make dreams a reality. But for people like me... life is a horror. Everything is unexpected... my parents don't give a shit, my sister is dead, and I have only one real friend. I have to take life as it hits me. I never know what will be next, only that it'll make me more and more miserable until I break. All happiness is based on is sugar-coated misery. All the world means to me is a place to waste away. Tweek, I've been thinking. Thinking about... death, you know. Sometimes I want to end it, but I know I won't." Though I still cannot speak, I feel a bit relieved by that last part. "Do you know what life means to me, Tweek?" I shake my head no, eyes frozen on Craig as he casually lies with his head propped up on his hand. "Life means you." He pauses, and I'm confused. "Yes, life _is_ you. You're my best friend. You're the only person I've been able to depend on over the years. Although life is mostly misery, I'm the best kind of miserable. I'm not happy and I don't think I ever will be, but you bring out the best in me. I'm a trouble maker. I'm always getting into trouble, and a lot of people are intimidated by me. But you've always been there. When my sister died, when Stripe died, whenever I needed someone. I never had to look far." He smiles a bit, "And you know what else?" I shake my head once more, "I don't know what I'd do without you. You bring out the craziness in me. We're two misfits, and we don't make any sense at all, and we're probably a little insane... but I love it. If I didn't have a best friend like you, I would end this. But I'm sticking around, because cheerful misery with a best friend is better than eternal misery whever else. Life might just be misery for me, but at least I'm miserable with the world's best friend." I just stare, in complete awe, until he smiles and adds a bit of comic relief, "Oh, God. Now that I'm done sounding like a total drama queen _fag_, what were we doing?" We both laugh and go back to our homework, but to this day, that memory gives me chills. It's haunting, but it was also a lie... at least, the last part was. _

_The Craig I knew had never been into sports. He just didn't get them. He also had a sarcastic attitude and some bad habits, but that was just the way he was to everyone. You see, the friendship Craig and I shared was pretty deep. He never showed emotion, whether it be happiness or sadness, around anyone... other than me, or so I was told. Sure, he'd laugh, he'd talk, he'd show a little bit of emotion... but not as much as I saw. He cried in front of me when Stripe died, he cried in front of me when Ruby died. Hell, he cried in front of me when Old Yeller died. He laughed at stupid little jokes with me and did crazy things just like every other kid. Sure, he liked things 'nice and boring' to an extent, but when Craig got hyped up, he _really_ got hyped up. He'd jump around his room singing into french fries to whatever was on the radio, he'd air guitar to drum solos, he'd wear underwear on his head with a towel around his neck and make up a superhero alias. He drank energy drink after energy drink, then he'd ride a matress down a snowy hill at four am. He used a Spiderman toothbrush and liked to wear t-shirts over hoodies. He would pretend that the rubber bands in his braces were like banjo strings, and he would strum them and do a little dance when he was trying to figure something out. He always wore jeans and WalMart brand clothing. He would make fun of Cartman, but he made fun of himself even more. He carried a My Little Pony lunchbox and backpack set to school, just because no one would confront him about it. He could find humor in almost everything, but he chose to hide his feelings. He was afraid. No one knew _that_ Craig like I did._

But good things never last. Craig taught me that.

_I had plans with Craig after school. We were going to go to the coffee shop to study and then we were going to watch Toy Story, just for old times sake. He had told me to meet him by the snack machines after school. It was 3:15, and I was waiting for Craig to get there. Sometimes, Craig would stay after school for a few minutes to get some extra help on his homework assignments, so I didn't think anything of it. I toss my bag to the ground and slide down beside it. I pull out my cell phone and text my mother, 'waiting 4 craig 2 get done w hmwrk help. b home n a little bit.' She apparently didn't get the text for a while. I wait for Craig for about fourty minutes, just assuming he would come. However, I instead get a text from my mom, 'craig just walked by house w clyde + token. r u sure u had plans?' Since when does Craig talk to those guys? I can't help but to feel a little betrayed by this, but I shrug it off. I'm sure he has a reason. I flip open my phone and send a message to Craig, 'wats up man? did u 4get about 2nite?' I keep my phone out in hopes of a message, but one never comes. I grab my bag and walk out of the school. It looks like I'm walking home. I begin to trudge through the deep snow. I spend that night studying by myself with no company other than my mother. Craig hasn't tried to talk to me once._

_Lunch rolls around the next day. I look around the cafeteria for Craig, but he isn't at his locker. I don't see him in the hallways either, so I give up and eat lunch by myself. I pick a seat at the back of the cafeteria, right by the glass windows between the cafeteria and the outdoor seating. I take one last look around before eating my meal. About half way through, however, I see something hit the window. I look up to see some of the upperclassman jocks throwing around some freshman's food. Whatever. I look around outside, just out of curiosity, and spot Clyde, Token, Kevin, Jason, and Jimmy sitting at a table two tables down drom me on the outside. At first, I didn't notice the extra person sitting with them. But whenever I did, I realized that it was Craig. The guys were all laughing and having a good time, but Craig looked uncomfortable. He looked like he wanted to get out, but he was trapped. He eventually glances up and sees me looking at him. He mouths the word, 'sorry,' and looks away with sorrow-filled eyes._

_I sent him a text later that week asking if he wanted to hang out sometime over the weekend. The reply that I got was not what I thought it would be. 'no srry. im going 2 denver wit my cuz.' I spent most of that weekend sitting in my room, staring out the window and listening to music. Having only one friend has it's downfalls. On that Saturday afternoon, however, I saw Craig with Clyde and his crew in Token's convertable. He still looked just as awkward as before._

_I decided to give Craig some time to clear his mind. I didn't want to be clingy and needy like I used to be, so I just fell back and let whatever happen. One day when I was studying in the library, I saw someone sit their books next to mine. I look up to see Craig pulling out the chair beside me to sit down. I speak first, "Oh, hey man. Where have you been?" He looks around for a second before speaking, "Oh, you know. Busy with the family in Denver, trying to keep my grades up." He chuckles awkwardly. "Oh." I could tell he was lying. I just knew Craig like that. But, hell, while he's here... "Hey, do you have any plans tonight?" He looks up and opens his mouth to speak, but he stops. He looks down as if he's ashamed before looking back up and saying, "Football practice." I couldn't really believe my ears. Craig had always hated football. "...Football practice?" He nods. "What the hell, Craig, you hate football." He looks at me again, "It's not really _that _bad. It's just something for me to pass time. Look, I have to go. Class is starting soon." He picks his books up without another word and walks away._

_A few weeks went by, and Craig seemed more and more distant. As time went on, we talked less, but he still tried to stick around when he could. He made excuses as to why he couldn't be around; although I didn't believe a single one of them, I held my tongue. I thought that if I stayed quiet, it would pass. I didn't realize then how wrong I could be._

_I never really noticed how well Craig could fit in before then. In his football jersey and Park High shorts, he just looked like a sports player. He kept his hat and everything else. However, approximately two weeks after he joined the football team, he came to school looking like a brand new person. He had lost his navy blue chullo and blue and black brace brackets. In fact, his braces were gone. (More like Token had bought him the new invisible braces. 'Cool kids don't have braces,' I guess.) I instead saw Craig decked out in a light blue Hollister t-shirt and jeans that were ripped and faded. His black WalMart shoes were replaced with shiny silver and white Jordans. His long-ish raven hair was gone, now cut into a plain black style. He wasn't even taking his books to class with him anymore. I decided to send him a text during second period, 'dude, wat the hell r u doin! u look like a fxkin retard.' I quickly get a reply, 'no i dnt dude. im just tryin a new look calm down.' I don't even want to reply. I put my phone away and begin to take notes._

_Later that day, I'm walking down the hallway to my history class. I hear someone say, "That Tweek freak? Really?" I'm definitely paying attention now, but I don't look. Then I hear a voice that I don't even have to try to recognize. Craig says, "Yeah, dude. He texted me and told me I look like a fucking retard. I think I look pretty good if you ask me." I hear Clyde speak next, "Yeah, he has no room to talk about you. He looks like he's addicted to crack or something." At this point, I don't want to know what Craig will say next. I _don't _want to know, but I keep listening. "Yeah, man I'm not even trippin. I'm not gonna be trippin over someone that's just jealous cus I got new friends."_

_Time went by, I didn't hear much from Craig. He fit in perfectly fine now. If I hadn't seen it happen, I wouldn't recognize him. He hung out with the jocks, looked like a prep, and went with the flow. He got more into partying and less into school. He didn't care for much else other than sports, girls, and the weekend. He fell for everything that the _real _Craig went against. He fell into the lifestyle that he'd told me he wouldn't give in to. He fell into the hands of fate, he got trapped. He couldn't escape, and he no longer wanted to._

_I can't hold it in any longer. One afternoon after school, I text him. 'wat the hell craig. y r u ignoring me wat did i do?' I_

_get a reply almost immediately, 'chillax man. u aint done nothin i just changed. things cant last 4evr.' _

_'but u used 2 b so against this. wat happened.'_

_'idk i just realized it aint as bad as i thot. im enjoyin it u shuld try it sumtime.'_

_'no craig. ur not even urself anymore. idk who u r but ur not craig.'_

_'ya im craig, ur bein stupid man'_

_'how am i bein stupid? ur the 1 that changed 180 prcnt like its nothin!'_

_I don't get a reply from Craig. Instead, a number I don't know pops up on the screen. I answer the call. "Hello?" A masculine voice replies, "Leave Craig alone, loser." I'm baffled, "Who is this?" "This is Clyde, fuckin' dumbass. Leave Craig alone he doesn't want anything to do with a loser like you. Now bye, and if I hear that you said one more word to him, I'll give you the worst ass whoopin' you'll ever have." Then I hear a dial tone. _

_So I don't. I don't say another word to Craig. I never did. He never so much as glanced in my direction, at least not when I was looking. I remember how upset he was when Clyde died. I was going to try to help him, if at all possible, but as soon as I walked up to him I got a fist in my face. I got beat up by the only friend I'd ever had, and I'd never done a thing wrong. But I'm one for respect. I just stand up, brush it off, and walk away like nothing had happened. _

_That was the last time I'd had an encounter with Craig, until the night._

_Craig screaming, my fault. Craig crying, my fault. Craig dying... it's all my fault. The blood and the pain and the everything. The last time I'd seen my best friend alive was the thing that will haunt me forever._

So, here I am. Standing beside the grave of Craig Tucker. The boy I once knew. The boy that wanted to escape his fate but fell further into it than anyone I've known. The boy that I spent almost every minute of my time with for years. The one I called my best friend, and the one that called me a freak. The one that changed and caused more damage than he realized. I take a last look up to the casket, and as they close it, the tears I'd been holding in all came out. They came out, and I never thought they would stop. I fell to the ground, getting dirt and stains on the tux I'd borrowed from my father. But it isn't like I care. I don't care about this tux, I don't care about the world. I don't care about any of these people.

I can't watch as they lower the casket. I can't make myself look up. I can't make myself stand. I can't dry my eyes, I can't move, I can't feel anything other than the feeling of a million knives into my heart. It's real. It's so real, it's not some nightmare. I won't wake up. This isn't going to go away. The pain is real, this is the horrible reality that I've caused.

"I'm so sorry, Craig. I'm so fucking sorry."

I'm interrupted by the sound of a man clearing his throat, "Excuse me, sir." I look up to find an older man holding a paper, written out to me. "Mr. Tucker left this for you." He hands me the paper and walks away.

I look down at the paper and run a finger over my name, clearly written in Craig's sloppy handwriting. I wonder what this is about. I unfold the paper carefully and read to myself:

_"Tweek, don't be. Don't be sorry, I know I deserve whatever happens to me. I shouldn't have done this to you. You honestly were the best person in my life. I was just so worried about what my parents thought that I stopped thinking about what really mattered. They always wanted me to be the jock and the popular one, just like my dad had been. I know now that I shouldn't have changed like this. You didn't deserve this, you'd never done a thing wrong._

_I shouldn't have started hanging out with Clyde and the others. They did this to me. They told me I'd never live up to my parents expectations if I didn't act and look like them. So I listened. I just fell back and gritted my teeth, did whatever they told me to do._

_I now know what true misery is like. Misery without a real friend. Misery without _you_. And now I know that before, I had all that I needed; now, I'm left with nothing. Nothing is real for if whoever this crazy killer is doesn't get to me first, this is my suicide note.. I messed my own life up, don't you ever blame yourself. _

_I'm sorry, Tweek. _I'm_ sorry. Ever since fourth grade, you've been the perfect best friend. You were there for me in ways that no one else ever was. I'm so sorry that I messed it up. I'm so sorry that I let you down. I was selfish, I was wrong. Believe me, there's nothing I wouldn't give to get that were the perfect best friend, and I mean that in every way. _

_I know I acted irrational towards you. I shouldn't have given up our friendship to turn into some stupid jock, but I can't change what I did. It's too late. I've hurt you far too much and I apologize. When I hit you at school, I was just trying to scare you away. I wanted you to leave me alone so I couldn't hurt you anymore, not because I hated you. I don't care how gay it sounds, I loved you more than anything. I hurt you, and I lost you, and now I have no reason to live._

_If I end up killing myself, don't blame yourself. I know it would be hard not to, but don't. I did this all to myself, I fell into the trap that I told you so much about. I told you before that you were life. You were my reason to stay alive, and now that I screwed that up for myself - I don't know why I'm here. Honestly, I'm out of reasons for existance. I'm just wasting away now, just like I said before. _

_No matter how hard things seem - I'll always be here. I'll watch over you, you better believe it. I'll wait for you whever it is we end up. I'll fix things, even if it has to be after death. _

_You know what? Even if you _were_ the one that's been killing everyone, and you killed me, I would forgive you. I would rather have you take my life than anyone else other than myself. Because I know that I caused you all of the pain and hurt, and I'm sorry. I just want you to think of the good times. I want you to keep the good times in mind, not the monster I turned into. Please forgive me, Tweek. _

_I know this is probably a shitty suicide/death note, but it's hard to think when your mind is racing a million miles per hour. I love you, Tweek. Don't forget it._

_P.S. Remember, I'm waiting."_

Amazingly, I haven't run out of tears. Even more amazingly, I've picked myself up from the ground and walked to the outskirts of South Park. I blink the tears from my eyes and force myself to stop crying. I stop once I'm on the bridge and glance over the side. It looks so beautiful, the sky is an amazing navy blue. I know it's Craig's way of telling me he's out there.

You know, Craig told me that every once in a while, someone can escape their fate. He wasn't one of those people, but that doesn't mean I won't be.

Although I'm normally a coward, I pull myself up onto the ledge and look up to the sky. I'd hate to keep Craig waiting for too long. He always was the impatient one.

I hear footsteps behind me, but I don't care. I hear a panicked voice screaming, "TWEEK! What are you doin'? Come down from there... please!" But I don't care. I think of life, and I don't care if I stick around for the rest or not. I see the navy blue sky turn even a clearer navy color, and I take that as my sign.

With no further thought, I jump.

**A/N: Uh... I have no idea what happened with this. I started this with no idea what I wanted to make happen and ended up with this. I don't know if I like it or not... I think it's kind of a weird turn? BUT eh, I tried. REVIEW IF YOU READ, PLEASE!**

**Extra random A/N: I really, REALLY wish I could draw. I feel like having a drawing of something from this but I can't draw for crap. So, if you're feeling extra generous... y'know. Haha xD Yeah... I don't know when I'll update again, but I'm sorry for the waits and weird cheesy lines. lol.**


	10. This Has to Be a Dream

**SO. Wow. I haven't updated this for quite a while... Life's been crazy. I have freakin AP english, psych, and AP bio finals this week.. I've been studying and been extremely caught up in schoolwork. I'm sorry for waiting so long to update this. Yeah, here it goes... as of now, I don't know what I'm gonna do.. haha.**

**POV: PIP**

Funerals usually don't bother me. Most sad things usually don't. But when the funeral is for the only friend you've ever really had, it just seems unreal.

I can't say I believe that this is real. I don't know when or even if I will. How do things elevate so fast? Just a few days ago I was a melvin known for my innocence with only one friend. Now, I'm still a melvin, but my innocence has been destroyed and that one friend is lying in a casket. It's all so unreal.

Pain? I've felt so much of it that I honestly didn't think it could hurt me anymore. Oh, how I was wrong. Being orphaned at such a young age, having my heart ripped out and crushed by the only girl I wanted, being manipulated into becoming a gentleman... then coming to this country and being singled out for it. I've always been the loser, the odd one out, and they all picked on me for everything. The first friend I thought I had blew me up into fireworks to fit in with the other kids. I've been on my own since age thirteen. I have no family and no real place to call home - only one friend throughout my whole life. I just stopped feeling, I just lived for the moment and didn't think twice over the heartache. I guess I just feel human again.

You see, Tweek and I made the perfect best friends. We were both innocent, both paranoid, we had both been screwed over by the one friend we really had, we had the same interests and just got along great from the start. When we started our friendship, it just felt right. I felt normal for the first time in my life. I didn't realize how fast that could change. Overnight we were both turned into cold-blooded murderers, tainted with sin and forever changed. I guess he just couldn't handle it. I guess that's one of our differences. He gives up too easily, he feels remorse; I don't give up and I feel no sorrow.

Horrible as it may be, what Butters has me doing feels so right. It's a release. These people tortured me throughout my whole life, these people deserve what I give them. When I'm causing someone the same pain they've caused me, it's like the empty space in my heart is filled. I just feel... superior, free, happy. (Maybe it'll be worth having to face that asshole Damien again in the end?)

People are getting up to leave, so I'm assuming the service is over. I slowly rise and walk through the churches tall double-doors. The wind outside stings my face, but I feel no colder than I've always felt. It's raining, but I keep walking. It seems as if there's nobody around. The streets are quiet and the only light is from the dim street lights overhead. The only sounds I can hear are the sound of rain pelting the ground along with my quiet, careful footsteps. Walking along these crumbling sidewalks is something that I've grown accustomed to, it's a reminder that no matter how strong you are, you'll always break. I think that over this past week, I broke. I'm a new person, and I no longer care who I hurt.

The night sky is the darkest shade of black, gray clouds contrasting and reflecting the luminous light of the moon. Rain is falling at a steady pace, thunder rumbling occasionally without lightning. The only things visible are the street lights and the sidewalks and roads they reflect onto. It's almost as if I'm walking on a road into absolute blackness, as if there's nothing left in the world for me. The soft pit-pattering of water hitting off of my cap and the moon reflecting the perfect amount of light onto my freshly polished shoes keep me walking, almost as if I'm hypnotized, paying no attention whatsoever to where I'm going, just taking this dark road to wherever it takes me.

**POV CHANGE - BUTTERS**

I didn't go to the funeral, I didn't think that I had any business to be there. I caused this, and Tweek would be fine if it weren't for me. It is a little upsetting, I must admit... someone in my same position gone, one less person that I have something in common with. However, the fact that I caused it doesn't phase me. You can't survive in this world unless you're strong, and Tweek is a fine example to prove this.

I'm on my way home from the grocery stores. Frozen pizza is my savior. The squeaking of the windshield wipers and the quiet hum of the Beatles on the radio are the only audible things.

As I'm driving, I see a person walking down the sidewalk wearing an all black tuxedo, just staring downwards at the ground. What would someone be doing walking alone this late? As I get closer, I begin to recognize the blond hair, pale skin, and fancy exterior as Pip. I slow my car to a stop and roll down my window.

"What are you doin', Pip?" my curiosity always gets the best of me.

"Walking home from Tweek's funeral I suppose, may I ask what you are doing at this time of night? It's awfully late."

"Oh, I'm jus' comin home from the grocery store. Well, gee, y-you need a ride?"

"Well, I suppose a ride won't hurt. Oh, dear.. what about these seats?"

"They'll be fine.. it'll dry eventually." I chuckle to break the melancholy mood.

He returns the favor, "Hey, Butters... do you mind if I stay at your house tonight? I don't feel like being alone tonight."

"Well.. sure. That's just fine Pip," I speak cheerfully. Maybe it'll be nice to not be alone anymore.

We continue conversing for the rest of the ride home. Once we get to the house, I throw a pizza in the oven.

"Frozen pizzas save my life. I swear, i-if they didn't exist, I'd-a already starved half ta death!" Pip and I both laugh at this statement, then we sit in silence until after our meal. Something must be on his mind...

"Butters... do you mind if we... you know... tonight." I didn't see that coming at all.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well... I do believe that Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski took Ike out of town for the weekend. I think that he's with Stanley at his house. Last time I checked, Sharon and Randy were at a meeting in Denver." He looks hopeful.

"Well... If you really wanna, we can, I guess." I was more tired than anything, but I'm not going to tell him no.

"Alright." Pip stands up from the table and puts his plate in the sink. He dashes upstairs as I'm still sitting at the table. From upstairs, I hear him yell, "Well, what are you waiting for?" I stand up slowly and trudge up the stairs. "We're gonna need a lot of black for what I'm planning. He unzips his bag and pulls out two black jackets, two black pairs of sweatpants, two ski-masks with only two small holes for the eyes, and two pairs of black boots. Since when is Pip this anxious to break the law? He strips down to his boxers faster than my mind could process and starts pulling on the layers of black quickly. He gives an odd look in my direction and says in a humorous tone, "Are you just going to sit there and stare, or are you going to get ready?" Without thinking about it, I take off my clothes and replace them with all black. I lag behind in my room to sort out my dirty laundry. When I return downstairs, Pip is waiting with a bowl of chili with what looks like shards of glass inside of it.

Pip and I walk for what seems like forever. The rain has stopped as of now, and we've already dropped off Pip's special chili at our hideout. As soon as the Marsh house comes into view, Pip quickens his pace. I still haven't quite figured out why he's so interested in Kyle.

Having known Kyle and Stan since preschool, we knew that they were bound to come looking when we threw rocks at the door. When they stepped outside, Pip and I lunged forward and pulled them both down. They both let out startled screams and tried to resist, but the chloroform quickly stopped it. (I don't know where the hell Pip has been getting this stuff?) We pull them both to our spot in the Broflovski's back yard. The back porch light is on. I adjust my gloves, then I pull Kyle onto the old-fashioned rocking chair from their porch. I secure his hands to the chair's arms with two pairs of handcuffs (provided, once again, by Pip) and bind his feet together with a rope I found laying beside the road. As for Stan, Pip has his hands tied together behind his back as well as his feet, and another rope is securing him to the air conditioning unit outside of the house. His eyes are duct taped open, and he slowly comes back to consciousness, along with Kyle.

"Wh-whaa..? What the fuck's goin' on?" Stan says, obviously confused and worried. He looks up to Kyle's chair and begins to panic, only to realize he can't help Kyle.

"Staaan..? Wha's happening?" Kyle speaks in a drowsy slur. He, same as Stan, tries to stand up and panics when he realizes that he can't. "What the hell?" He looks to the side and sees Pip and I standing there with the chili. "Who the fuck are you?" He speaks louder, thrashing to get out of the chair.

"You're not gonna get out of this even if you do that." Pip disguises his voice very well, I wouldn't recognize the voice if I didn't know it was him.

Kyle stops thrashing. He looks up to my eyes and says, "What do you want from me?"

**POV: STAN**

I don't understand what the fuck is happening. Why the hell am I in Kyle's back yard, why are we tied up, and who the fuck are they? I haven't heard that voice before, so what the fuck do they want with us? Most importantly, what are they planning on doing to us?

To say that I'm scared is an understatement - I'm FUCKING TERRIFIED. These fucking creeps have my best friend and I tied up, and they're both wearing all black. This _can't_ be happening. This is a nightmare... please, God, tell me it's a fucking nightmare...

What the hell are they holding? Why do they look so... calm? I bet they're the ones that's been killing everyone. Fuck, no! They can't kill Kyle! If they wanna kill me, that's just fucking fine, but they need to leave Kyle alone!

Why the fuck can't I blink? I'm pretty sure there's no possible good outcome for this. _Wake the fuck up, Stan!_ I blink hard. God damn it, why aren't I waking up?

Oh shit... what the fuck are they doing? "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!" I can't let this happen... but there's nothing I can do.

"Oh, boy, you know you're not getting him out of this, don't you?" What the fuck?

"Who the FUCK are you?"

"Why would we tell _you_ that?"

"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING? Leave us the fuck ALONE!" I can't control myself.

"Shut the fuck up."

"DON'T TELL ME TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I'm pissed, there's no shutting me up... until they walk my way with a roll of duct tape and a switchblade knife.

"Now shut the fuck up, or would you prefer the knife instead?" I think it's a pretty good idea for me to shut the fuck up now. The masked man duct tapes my mouth shut and walks away.

Why the fuck do I smell chili...? And why the hell is Kyle so damn calm right now? How the fuck CAN he be?

Masked man #1 walks over to Kyle with the bowl of unknown whatever (presumabely chili) and speaks quietly, "Are you hungry?"

Kyle looks up to the mans face and simply says, "No."

Masked man #2 says, "That's too damn bad."

Masked man #2 opens Kyle's mouth and masked man #1 picks up the spoon out of the bowl and... wait a fucking second. What the fuck is that shiny shit in there? ... Oh fuck no.

I make an attempt to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to get free, but I have no luck. I try to close my eyes to wake up from this nightmare, but there's something keeping them opened.

I look back up to see what they're doing to Kyle and I see masked man #1 shovel a spoonful of chili into Kyle's mouth. Whimpering yet somehow staying calm, Kyle chews and swallows. There is blood leaking from the left side of his mouth and a cut on his lip.

This is NOT fucking happening. I need to wake the fuck up! I can't watch this! There's no fucking way Kyle will want to be around me again if he finds out about this fucked up dream! But the blinking won't work, and that's the only fucking way I know to get out of here.

I see man #2 grab a... Is that a fucking bat? No god damned way is this gonna go down. My mind is screaming 'FUCKING STOP,' but my mouth won't speak a single word. This has got to be some Freddy Kreuger shit or something.

Man #2 swings the bat at Kyle's chest and makes a hard impact. Kyle doubles over as far as his chair will allow him and whimpers again. He looks over at me, and I realize that he's crying.

See, I fucking KNEW this wasn't real. Kyle doesn't cry! Ever! Now all I need to do is wake the hell up...

Man #1 is continually shoveling that shit into my best friend's mouth. I know this isn't real, but it's seriously gonna fuck me up mentally. Should I tell Kyle when we wake up, or should I keep this between myself and my shrink?

Man #2 finally stopped beating Kyle with the bat when blood began to seep through Kyle's shirt. Now, he's just standing there by fuckface #1 with a disgustingly proud look in his eyes. What the fuck is wrong with these assholes?

I need to get my fucking dreams evaluated or something. This seems too goddamn real.

I hear Kyle's sobbing and I see the blood dripping all out from his mouth and a growing blood stain in his shirt. He looks like he's about to fucking die. He can't keep his eyes open and his breathing is heavy and uneven. Man #2 puts his bowl to the side and grabs the bat. He delievers one hard fucking blow to Kyle's temple and Kyle's breathing stops.

He looks broken. He looks disgusting, bloody and battered, and I shouldn't be dreaming of this fucked up shit! _Wake the fuck up, Stanley!_ The two unknown fuckfaces are now walking towards me. Oh, fuck...

What the fuck are they gonna do to me? I begin to thrash and make attempts to scream. I don't wanna fucking die, not even in my stupid dream! _WAKE UP STAN! _What the fuck are they gonna do with that ra-

Blackness. That's all I see. I feel nothing, I hear nothing. Knocked the fuck out.

...

What the hell was up with that dream? Why's it so bright in here? I hope I didn't oversleep. I roll over to try to see if Kyle's still in bed, but when I open my eyes I see blurs of green and blue. When my eyes come to focus, I realize that I'm lying on the ground, outside. Laying right next to the air... OH FUCK.

I flip over as fast as I possibly can and I see the exact image I'd seen last night. Kyle laying all fucking bloody and battered on his mother's rocking chair, handcuffed and ... dead.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. How the FUCK did this happen? I jump up as fast as possible and run into the Broflovski's house through the back door. I grab the phone and dial 911... "Yes. I have a fucking emergency! My best friend is dead in his back yard. Was I there? Yes I was fucking there! I thought it was all a dream! Fucking hurry PLEASE!"

I pace back and forth and I panic. I'm basically in hysterics, I can't see shit and I'm thinking it over. I thought it was all a fucking dream. I thought I'd wake up and everything would be fine. Who the FUCK would do this to Kyle? Fuck fuck FUCK! I fall and cry until the police arrive.

"Hello, sir, who are you to the victim?" The cop stands at about 6'2 and looks about fourty years of age.

"I'm Stan Marsh, he's my best friend." I'm trying my best to hide my tears, but I'm failing horribly.

"Mr. Marsh, do you recall what happened to Mr. Broflovski?"

"Well... there were these two men wearing all black... they had ski masks, I couldn't see their faces. They were wearing gloves, too, so you're not going to be able to find their DNA. They attacked Kyle and I when we answered the door at my house. Somehow we ended up here, and I was tied to a fucking air conditioner, and Kyle was handcuffed to the chair. Well these two bastards had some kind of fucked up chili with glass or something in it, and one was feeding it to him while the other was beating him with a fucking baseball bat!" I'm crying, stuttering between words and gasping for air occasionally, "And when the food was gone, one of them hit him in the face with the bat and then they knocked me out with some kind of stuff on a rag. And I thought it was all a fucking dream..." At this point, I've completely lost it.

The police officer just stares in disbelief, "Mr. Marsh, did Kyle have any problems with anyone that you know of?"

"No, none at all. Kyle was a great guy. He never fucking did anything wrong to anyone... who the FUCK could do something like this?"

"Do you believe that this is related to the murders of Mr. and Mrs. Stotch, Eric Cartman, Clyde Donovan, Craig Tucker, and the suicide of Tweek Tweak?"

I stop crying and look up in realization. "...Yes. Yes, I do."

"Do you have any idea who would do this?"

"No, dude, I have no fucking idea. I knew people around here were fucked up but... if any of us were gonna kill anyone, I thought it would be Cartman."

"Stanley, do you know anything about their appearances other than their black clothing? Height, weight, anything?"

"Well... they're both pretty tall, and they're both about average weight. Very deep voices, so obviously they're dudes. I have no fucking idea of anything else."

"Thank you, Mr. Marsh. We'll inform the family and we'll call you back later for further investigation." He walks away and goes back to the scene. I watch from the screen door of Kyle's kitchen as the paramedics cut the cuffs and lay Kyle onto a stretcher and cover him up with a fucking white sheet.

Even after they're long gone, I can't leave. I just sit in the Broflovski house, sobbing hysterically and trying to figure out who would do this.

And to whoever did, I swear to God, I'll find you. And when I fucking do, I'm gonna fucking murder you. You'll be regretting every single mother fucking thing you ever did. You cock suckers won't get away with this...

**Oh, wow. I don't even know. It's late, and I'm too lazy to re-read this. I hope it's good. Tell me what you think, please and thanks. :D I'll try not to take so long next update. xD**


	11. Monster

**A/N: SO. I kind of forgot all about this. I'm sorry! I've been so busy lately that I've had no time for writing, and I pretty much forgot. Weeeelll it's been a while. Have fun with this, I guess...**

He's broken. You can tell just by looking at him. He looks like he hasn't slept in years, with the bags under his glassy eyes, the unkempt, greasy hair and the baggy clothes, the absence of any feelings - any emotions. He looks _dead. _He gets lunch, but doesn't touch it; you can see his weight has dropped. He stares ahead in class, ignoring everyone and everything; no one has heard him speak a word since that night. It's like he's a zombie... walking, breathing, but not living; moving, touching, but not feeling. I'm not even sure if _broken_ is the word for it - it seems like an understatement. But nonetheless, he's hurting, and it's all because of _me. _And, as sick as it sounds, _I love it._

No one has dared speak a word to him. Not even Wendy, his precious girlfriend, his 'beloved.' She sits with him, holds him, tries to help - but she doesn't dare to speak. He doesn't acknowledge her presence, he just stares ahead. And sometimes, when you're least expecting it, he breaks down. He cries, clutches his fists, punches, and seperates himself from whoever is near - never once breaking his silence. And when he cries, he bawls; there is no stopping it, no matter who you are, no matter how much silent coaxing you try, he won't calm down. Not until his eyes have run dry and his face is swollen, and often, until he's dryheaving and disoriented.

Three weeks have passed. Three weeks since everything crashed and burned. Although everyone's spirits were already crushed with the loss of the others, Stan's broken state made it all so much worse. Walking down the halls, you could feel the sorrow and the silence. When you'd pass Stan, there was no noise but the hushed whispers and the squeaking of sneakers on tile floors.

Some couldn't understand why Stan was so beat up over the loss of an old friend; others realize that it was much more than that. The loss of a brother, a best friend; one whose freindship was in the process of mending. Kyle and Stan had just decided to continue their friendship the week before, and since they had, you could tell that (for possibly the first time in South Park) something was _right._ They laughed, they smiled _real_ smiles, they picked up right where they left off.

And knowing that I had the power to _destroy_ it? Knowing that I actually had? Wonderful.

Giving the town a few weeks to mourn wasn't my choice - of course not, it was Pip's. Though the boy seemed to have no soul, he hadn't yet lost his decency. But three weeks? Three weeks is enough. And don't think I haven't thought about it, don't think I haven't planned this out. Luckily enough, I've picked a pretty little lady to be my Anatomy partner, and she's coming to my house to work on our body chart project tonight. Intentional? You bet. I haven't told Pip. I don't plan on it. He's probably not over "letting the town mourn" or whatever it is he's trying to do.

The rest of the school day flew by like nothing. Before I knew it, I was back in my front room, eating (once again) frozen pizza. It shouldn't be long before she gets here, so I get out my book and _pretend_ to be studying. And, wouldn't you know it? The doorbell rings. Perfect timing.

I open the door and look at the beautiful girl standing in the doorway. Dark, elbow-length hair blowing in the wind - average sized body: not too thin, not too thick - bright hazel eyes and perfect facial features; nothing too special, just your average girl, but still beautiful. It's a shame that she's going to go through this.

I let her in, and she politely flashes a smile and kicks off her shoes. She lays her bookbag on the kitchen table and takes out a folder, which is organized and seperated with different tabs for every type of work we do in the class. It's strange, because I didn't think anyone in this stupid town cared about organization anymore. She pulls out a stack of papers held together with a paperclip, and slides it across the table to me.

As she pulls out a small bag and empties it's contents, she speaks, "So I was thinking that we could put our main focus on the abdominal region, judging from the research I've done it's one of the more interesting areas. I think we could really get the top grade if we get off to a good start." I simply nod and continue sifting through the stack of papers. This girl is _really_ organized, everything is typed, seperated, and has a headline... _and this is only the rough draft._ Well, alright. Whatever helps me get a good grade.

"Do ya want somethin' ta drink? Tea, maybe?" I ask, out of nowhere. But since I didn't invite her over to actually do this project, I figured that I should just get this over with.

"Yes, please," she speaks softly, then begins to write notes down off of a website she searched on her iPad. I pour her a drink, slip some sleeping medicine into it, and carry it to the table. (Hey, don't judge. I'm trying to _knock her out_ not _kill her_. What would be the fun in doing it that way?) As I sit the glass down she glances over and mutters, "Thank you," with a forced smile.

We (unfortunately) do work for the next half hour: printing and cutting and pasting, typing and writing and organizing. By then, she looks unfocused and tired.

"Are ya alright?" I ask, in the most 'concerned' voice I can manage.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine. Thanks for asking." She looks up, seeming unsure.

"Well, are ya sure? I gotta few spare bedrooms. Ya can take a nap if ya'd like."

She smiles and nods, "That sounds wonderful, actually. Are you sure, though? I hate to leave you to do the work by yourself. It seems unfair."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine, ya go on and take yerself a nap. Looks like ya need it." She giggles and stands up. Walking around the table, she gives me her iPad and the notes she'd taken.

"Here are the notes I've taken for the oral presentation. You can add onto them, If you'd like. I've found a really good website, it has a lot of useful information. It even has pictures and videos that go in depth on the descriptions. If you click on the notepad tab, I've got a list of other websites that have good information. I've finished printing and pasting the information on the diagram, all that's left to do on that section is the labels for the picture. You can do them if you want, or I can do them when I wake up," though she sounds smart, her voice is tired and she's eyeing the stairs, "So, where's that spare bedroom you told me about?"

I laugh, "Upstairs, first door on the right." She stumbles over to the stairs, dragging herself up them (and also making good use of the handrail, might I add.) After about five more minutes of working on the project, I stack the papers together and power off the iPad. As quietly as I can, I creep up the stairs. I enter the room to find her sleeping with a slight smile on her face, hugging a pillow. She looks so at peace, beautiful. I walk to the bathroom and grab one of my signature 'knock-out rags.' You know what they are. Anddddd, bam. It's done.

I pull the covers back on the bed and pick her up like a baby. She's much lighter than anyone else I've had to lug around. I carry her down the stairs, out the door, and lay her in the back seat of my car. Not even bothering to fasten my seatbelt, I speed away from my house and toward a very unusual place: Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman's old treehouse in the woods. Why? I don't know.

I've got everything set up, and I can tell she's just beginning to come to. She's stirring in her sleep, and she's no longer snoring. I double check the ropes I've got her tied with and look out the window just to make sure no one's followed us. (Paranoia? Yes.)

She finally wakes up and looks around a bit. Not as confused as I thought she would be, but with more of a wondering look in her eyes. She doesn't try to move, she's smart enough to figure out that she can't; however, she fails to panic. She looks at me and says, "I've been here before." Suprisingly enough, she smiles. I'm not sure what to think, so I nod. She must have picked up on my confused expression and speaks, "I know why we're here." She gives a sad look and continues, "I know there's no way out, but I have one question: Why?"

I think, and I think, but no answer comes to mind. So I say the thing I've said to all the others, "Because yer one'a them. Ya made my life hell since day one and yer finally gonna know how it feels." I don't break eye contact, I can't.

She glances from the ground up to me, and I notice the tears in her eyes. She refrains from blinking, and I know why: she doesn't want to look weak. She's always been this way. She says, in her most sympathetic voice, "I'm sorry." And I know that she means it. She tries to speak again, but her voice cracks. After a few seconds of silence, she speaks again, "Will you do me a favor, please?" She eyes the tools I have laid out on the wooden floor then brings her eyes back to mine. As bad as I want to say no and torture her to no ends, I nod. "Can you... can you make it as painless as possible?" I nod, yet again, for reasons unknown. I hear a whispered, "Thank you."

... Thank you? Thank you for murdering your friends? Thank you for taking you hostage? Thank you for killing _you_? Thank you for ruining the bit of happiness this town's managed to build up? WHY would she thank me?

I eye my tools, and think of the most _painless_ way to do this, for her. I decide on the axe, and walk over to where she is sitting. Though she must be scared out of her mind, she doesn't shake or plead, she doesn't whimper or beg. She stares, with watery eyes... eyes with tears that refuse to fall. I can't help but wonder why she's still insistant on being so strong.

I don't know what I'm doing, but I find myself leaning down. She maintains eye contact, and it scares me. But I grab ahold of her chin and give her a gentle, quick kiss. She was shocked, and I could tell; so I say my last words to her as I raise the axe, "_I love you_." I close my eyes and swing my arms, as quickly as I can. I hear the sound of blood rushing, flesh splitting, and the axe hit the floor. That's when I open my eyes, and see the one person I'd actually cared for covered in blood, split in two, dead. I don't feel remorse or sadness, I can't feel anything; I just stare and stare, and think of how beautiful she looks. I smile as I notice that the two split halves are still bound together by the ropes and held up by the wall. Realization hits, I can't stay here with a dead body, cops are bound to be patroling. So I lean down and place one last kiss on the dead girl's lips before I pack my bag and climb down the old wooden ladder.

On the way home, I begin to think. What _was_ my reason? Was it actually because she was one of them? ...No, no. She wasn't one of them, she had never done anything to me. Did I even _have_ a reason? Pondering the thought, I realize I didn't. I had no reason whatsoever, and that's when I realized I had stopped doing this for revenge. I was no longer doing this to get back at the people that made my life hell, because I'd just taken the life of one of the only innocent people in this godforsaken town. I was doing this because I was addicted. I'm a monster, and I have no heart. The thought makes me smile a twisted smile, being heartless feels great.

Once I'm home, I pick up my cell phone. Too many people know I was supposed to be with her tonight, so I'll say she never showed up.

I go to 'New Message' and select the contact 'Stan M.'

_Sent: 8:14 PM to Stan M.  
Hey, is Wendy with you?_

_Recieved: 8:16 PM from Stan M.  
uhm no...who is this_

_Sent: 8:17 PM to Stan M.  
Butters._

_Recieved: 8:19 PM from Stan M.  
butters? y the hell do u wanna know where wends is_

_Sent: 8:21 PM to Stan M.  
She was supposed to come over to work on our Anatomy project._

_Recieved: 8:22 PM from Stan M.  
she nevr showed?_

_Sent: 8:23 PM to Stan M.  
No. You haven't heard from her?_

_Recieved: 8:26 PM from Stan M.  
no...last i herd she was walkin 2 ur house_

_Sent: 8:27 PM to Stan M.  
Hmm. That's weird. I'll just ask Bebe if she's heard from her._

_Recieved: 8:30 PM from Stan M.  
u hav fun w that. g2g._

I close my phone and know that I won't be talking to Wendy at school tomorrow. No one will be talking to Wendy tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter.

_Sent: 8:33 PM to Bebe S.  
Hey Bebe, have you heard from Wendy tonight?_

_Recieved: 8:34 PM from Bebe S.  
nooo i haven't . . who's this ?_

_Sent: 8:35 PM to Bebe S.  
It's Butters. She never showed up to work on the Anatomy project._

_Recieved: 8:36 PM from Bebe S.  
hmmm, no i haven't heard from her since last period. have you tried her cell?_

_Sent: 8:38 PM to Bebe S.  
No, I don't have her number._

_Recieved: 8:39 PM from Bebe S.  
i've tried texting her a few times, no reply. since all this crazy shit's been happening i'm kindof worried. :( _

_Sent: 8:42 PM to Bebe S.  
Try her house phone? If she's not there, maybe we should tell the police? It's got me worried, too._

_Recieved: 8:46 PM from Bebe S.  
her mom says she never came home from skool. :( i'll call the station._

_Sent: 8:48 PM to Bebe S.  
Alright, let me know if you hear anything? Please?_

_Recieved: 8:48 PM from Bebe S.  
will do . . tell you tomorrow in home ec_

_Sent: 8:49 PM to Bebe S.  
Thank you._

_Recieved: 8:49 PM from Bebe S.  
np_

I should get some rest, school tomorrow is going to be even worse than today. I don't even bother to change my clothes or take off my shoes, I just fall over onto the couch and doze off.

**Stan's POV**

This is HELL. Absolute fucking hell. Just sitting, staring, silence. Twenty-four fucking seven, three weeks. My best friend is dead. He's _dead_ and I saw it happen. I still can't fucking figure out who's done this. Every night as I lay in my bed, I think about it. I replay it in my head (involuntarily, of course) and I try to figure out who the cocksuckers were. They did a pretty good job disguising themselves, making it so much fucking harder for me.

I have nothing. I have no clues, no one to help me out. Anyone else that's fucking seen them is _dead_. All my fucking friends are being killed, and I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I CAN DO TO STOP IT. But I can't let it go on. If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me that night. They just want to see me suffer. Well you know what? Congratulations, assholes! You got what you were fucking aiming for.

Not to mention, school is fucking _terrible_. I don't want to be bothered. By anyone (except Wendy, of course.) I mean, no one talks to me, but the looks fucking kill. They give me looks of pity, do my work for me in class to 'help.' And the silence around me? It's horrible. It's like I'm a fucking sound barrier, and the second I walk within ten fucking feet of someone they can't talk. I haven't eaten a damn thing, except for whatever food my mother shoves down my throat. I haven't been showering as often, because the days go by in a fucking daze, and I can never bring myself to do it. As far as I'm concerned, life is over.

I fucked up with Kyle before. I fucked up and went years without him. Nothing felt right, I felt helpless and horrible every damn day. But what did I do? Continue my life, trying to fit in. Left my best friend in the dirt, pretended everything was alright. But was it ever? Fuck no. And then, last month. Last month we decided to give it another try. Things felt great, I felt truly happy for once in my fucking life, and what happens? Some cocksuckers kill him. They fucking murder him and they make me watch it all.

I would have already ended this shitty life if I didn't swear revenge on whoever is doing this... Well, that, and if I didn't have Wendy.

_RING. RIIIIING. RING._

Who the hell is calling me at 10:30 at night? It's not like I'm sleeping... or doing anything important... but _seriously_? What the hell?

"Hello?" This better not be a prank call, I swear to God.

"Hello, Mr. Stan Marsh?" Uh oh. This voice sounds a little _too_ serious.

"Uhm... yes..."

"I think you need to come down the the station, as soon as possible. There's something we need to talk to you about, and I don't think you're gonna want to hear this over the phone."

"I'll be there in five minutes." I slam the phone back on the reciever and run out the door.

As I open the door to the police station, a million thoughts are racing through my mind. _Does this have to do with Kyle? Did they find whoever did this? Am I a suspect? What is going on?_ The secretary does nothing but give a sympathetic look and point to a door on the left side of the room.

There's two young police officers sitting behind a desk, talking to one another. When they see me enter the room, they give each other a glance as if to say, 'you talk.' After about ten seconds, the one with the beard sighs and looks at me, "Sit down, son. We have to talk."

As I sit down, I ask, "What does this have to do with?"

He sighs once again and picks a stack of papers up from the table, "What is your relationship with Wendy Testaburger?"

"W-well... She's my girlfriend. _What_ is this about?"

"How long have you two been in a relationship, Mr. Marsh?"

"Since the third grade, off and on. Why?"

"Are you aware that Miss Testaburger hadn't gone home from school and hasn't been in contact with anyone since?" He raises an eyebrow and awaits my answer.

"No... the last thing I'd heard from her, she was on her way to do an Anatomy project at Butters Stotch's house. He texted me and asked if she was with me, and told me that he never got to her house. I thought maybe she had gone home and forgotten, or something." Then, I realize... This is about Wendy. _Good thinking, dumbass. _"Why? Is she alright? Did someone find her?"

The police officers look at each other, and the younger of the two takes over the speech, "Did someone find her? Yes, we did." I let out a sigh of relief. "Is she alright? ...No." My face drops and my heart drops to my ass.

"What the fuck do you mean, no?" My heart is pounding, I'm expecting the worst. I always expect the worst.

"I mean... Well, son. Miss Testaburger was found dead. I'm sorry." What. The. Fuck.

"W-what happened to her? Who the fuck did it?" There are _already_ tears on my face. This can't be happening to me again. _Wake up, Stan. Wake up!_

"We're not sure what happened, Mr. Marsh. All we know is that she was found cut in half by an axe, tied up in an old treehouse. We have no suspects as of now. Did Wendy have any issues with anyone that you know of?" The older officer picked up a pen and notepad, ready to record whatever I said.

"No. N-none that I know of. She was a 4.0 student, top of the fucking class, captain of the debate team, soccer and tennis player _and_ a cheerleader. She didn't have any _time_ to have issues with people! I've never seen Wendy get in a f-fight with _anyone_ since elementary school." _Hold it in, Stan. Don't break down yet._

"Son, I understand this is hard for you. We can hold off the questions for a little while. I understand you've lost more than one close friend recently. I'm sorry, my boy. Go home, get some rest."

I don't speak. I just stand and walk away. I feel like a zombie. Like a zombie with a heart that's been broken into a million fucking pieces. I never knew that loss was this hard. I never _knew_ it would be this fucking hard to cope with. _My best friend. My future wife. Cartman. Craig. Tweek. Clyde. _What the fuck IS this?

_Wake up, Stan. Please wake up. It's all a dream, it has to be. _You fucking know it's not, quit hoping, asshole. _Wake up. Wake up. Wake up in your bed with Kyle sleeping beside you. Wake up with a voicemail from Wendy, asking about your plans for that night. Wake up, look out the window to see Clyde and Craig and Token playing football in the lot across the street. Walk down the road and stop to talk to Cartman and Kenny. See Tweek at the coffee shop down the street. See the Stotch family drive by in their minivan, on their way to church. WAKE THE FUCK UP and realize it's a fucking dream. _My thoughts won't leave me alone. My mind is racing. My eyes won't dry. I don't know where the fuck I'm going right now. I'm not going home, I know that much. I can't go home to be bombarded with questions that I don't want to answer.

Whoever this motherfucker is is _dead _when I find them. I swear on everything, I will murder them with my bare fucking hands if I have to. If it's the last damn thing I do, I will kill them. I'll make them feel what my friends felt. I'll make them feel what every fucking person in this town has felt.

The memories are killing me. Memories from preschool, when we all first met - memories of elementary school, when we did _everything_ together and risked it all - memories of middle school, when it all fell apart - memories of high school, when it began to come back together. These sleepless nights and these lifeless days. Everything coming back, I've _never_ hurt this bad. But I'm not giving up. I've got to stay strong, stay strong for them.

The tears are coming so fast that I can barely see, people passing by on the street silence as they get near. They stare and whisper to one another after they've passed, as if I'm deaf. They know the story, but they don't know it all. They don't understand what it's like to _see_ their best friend die... to wake up and find them dead by their side. They don't know what it's like to lose four of their other friends to some mysterious psycho. They don't know what it's like to have their future swiped away in the blink of an eye, because someone decides to murder the love of their life. They don't understand that everything I've ever stood for has fallen apart right in front of my eyes. They don't understand that I'm living now _only_ to get revenge. They'll never understand the pain of telling yourself it's all a dream just to get by, when you know deep down that it's not. They don't _know_ what it's like to have a nightmare that you can't wake up from, because that nightmare is actually your life.

I dry my eyes, finally, as I climb a set of three stairs. I've got to stay strong, for them. I have to do this - to push on. I can't give up, not yet. Revenge is a dish best served cold, that's what they say.

But, I have just one question... _Why the fuck am I at Butters' house?_

**A/N: WOW that took me forever. Seriously. Wow. I wrote this all in one sitting so I wouldn't forget about it or give up again. But, yeah. Once again too lazy to re-read this. Sooo... Review? & Don't be too mean? :)**


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